The Gunman
by sordid humor
Summary: IN HIBERNATION. A power the Dark Lord knows not: Harry Potter is an idiot who is terrible at Potions. A 'Macbeth' story thinly disguised as Harry Potter... if 'Macbeth' were tongue-in-cheek and striving for comedy. An alternate DH.
1. Nudity, Skulls, Tenderness & Lies

**TITLE: "THE GUNMAN"**

**AUTHOR: **sordid humor

**AUTHOR E-MAIL: **Adventure

**SUB-CATEGORY: **Humor; Romance; Drama

**RATING:** currently PG, but expect changes

**DISCLAIMER: **

"I do not own them in a box,

I do not own them with a fox,

I do not own them while I'm bowling,

They all belong to J.K. Rowling."

- an old friend

Realistically, I think we all know by now who's making several billion euros a year off the boy who lived, and we all know that's not me. No copyright infringement intended, sorry-sorry, et cetera, et cetera. You know the drill.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **

Not all chapters are as lengthy as the first. I write most things out on paper and then type after two-to-three rounds of personal editing and revision, so it obviously takes a little more time to achieve a finished product. However, I'm paranoid and anal; so, don't expect deviation. When I was typing this chapter, I was about halfway through drafting chapter four. There's always something in the works. The entire plot should be more than twenty chapters, but not more than thirty—that's if I don't add anything, which I inevitably will. I greatly hope that my little take is enjoyable—and you'd better love it, you evil creatures you! You know who you are, namagomi mazokus that demanded I take your silly commission. 6200 words and counting. I hope you're bleeping happy.

_**OPENING SUMMARY: **_

So Dumbledore's dead, that's a big one. Obviously, we have one very distraught Harry Potter on our hands. As he decides to get on with the great adventure of his life, circumb to destiny, et cetera, Ron and Hermione vow to come along for the ride... but Harry works alone. Though he loves his friends, his love for them exceeds any desire for assistance or camaraderie. At the first possible chance, Harry strikes out on his own. He knows that Ron and Hermione and all of his friends will come after him—but if there's one thing his life has taught him, it's that _the best place to hide is in the open_. Harry uses the Dark Arts to perform a very complex curse, allowing himself to become everything he's not... with some limits, but no matter. And Harry sets out to find the remaining Horcruxes of his life-long nemesis, sets out on the ultimate adventure... in an unassuming form...

**PART I**

**CHAPTER I: **

**NUDITY, SKULLS, TENDERNESS, & LIES**

Orange sunshine sloshed about the cauldron as he gave two splashes left, one splash right, and two splashes left again. The sunshine thickened every time becoming brighter with each flick of the seven and a quarter inch willow wood salad fork with which he stirred it. He sighed and wiped his brow on his sleeve. He had been up all night with his Felix Felicis, which had yet to turn golden, despite the Prince's word that it should be fully gold and sloshing on its own by now... it was easier to think of Snape as the prince; as an equal. It was easier to believe than to remember... who could trust Snape's word now? Especially after...

Harry turned his head slightly, letting his tear fall onto the floor rather than anywhere near his potion brewing on the Dursley's new stove top. He held back a sniff and wiped his cheek before any of the Dursley's came into the kitchen and caught him crying again. But the only thing that would tear the Dursley's from their precious television and draw them into the kitchen would be the desire to demand that Harry speed up the production of tonight's feast: pot roast. Harry had put it in the oven an hour ago, and the light aroma of cooking meat now filling the kitchen only served to confirm his story.

He had been back at number four, Privet Drive for almost five weeks now: he had been brewing Felix Felicis for about as long. According to the "additions" to _Advanced Potion Making_, the difficult part was already over. As soon as the potion went gold and started sloshing on its own, it would require only a four-month boil in order to achieve full potency. Harry had arranged to have Dobby retrieve the potion from the Dursley's and bring it to number twelve, Grimmauld Place, where it would be watched over by Dobby, Kreacher, and Winky until it was complete. The more Harry thought about it, the more he realized he'd have to thank Ron for suggesting that he request Dobby and Winky from Professor McGonagall before Hogwarts—

Harry gulped and forced down a fresh wave of tears. He had come to the conclusion that crying would not do a thing... yet sometimes he couldn't manage to make himself stop. No matter how he tried, he always managed to be thinking about Hogwarts and magic and Dumbledore. At least Felix gave him something to do.

There was a series of _crack_s from the front room as though Dudley had sat on the glass-top coffee table. Harry winced and tapped the potion off of his wooden fork. There was a shriek from Aunt Petunia and a growl of wrath from Uncle Vernon, and Harry was then quite confident that the noise hadn't been Dudders and the coffee table. He put down his fork and went out to meet his elves, thinking, "where has the time gone? I couldn't have lost track of the date alrea—"

There were half a dozen wizards in the Dursley's living room.

"BOY!" Uncle Vernon roared, catching sight of Harry in the doorway, "_WHAT_ IS THE MEANING OF _THIS_?" and he jabbed a large fat finger at the crowd of people who had indeed Apparated on top of his new coffee table.

Four of five redheads grinned and waved enthusiastically. Three women blushed furiously and hit the nearest redheaded lunatic with varying levels of force.

Uncle Vernon's face went from beat red to puce.

"_BOY!!!_"

"Wh—" Harry stuttered, "wha' are you all doing here?"

"We came to rescue you!" exclaimed Fred, stepping out of the remnants of the coffee table.

"Again!" added George, likewise liberating himself.

"_WHO _IS THIS LOT?" Uncle Vernon demanded, standing up and unbuttoning his suit coat menacingly. Aunt Petunia and Dudley looked positively faint.

Fred and George pointed their wands haphazardly at Uncle Vernon, who paled but didn't back down. Harry resisted the temptation to cover his eyes and let it all be done.

"Oh, dear! This is rather ridiculous!" Hermione intervened; the only one sensible enough to wear muggle clothing, the only one sensible enough not to make matters worsen exponentially, and the only one sensible enough not to have apparated on the Dursley's coffee table. She pushed Fred and George's wands down and stepped between the twins and the overlarge puce bulldog of a man called Dursley.

"My name is Hermione Granger," she said, offering her hand. Dursley regarded it skeptically. "My parents are dentists," she said in a reassuring voice. Dursley took her hand and shook it curtly. "This is Ginny Weasley, Ron Weasley," she pointed, "Fred and George Weasley—" they made faces at Dudley when Uncle Vernon wasn't looking—"Bill Weasley and his fiancée Fleur Delacour." Dursley's narrowed eyes flashed around to each face in turn. "We were wondering, _sir_," Hermione smiled sweetly, "if we might borrow Harry for the engagement party this evening?"

Had time truly snuck up on him so quickly? Could it already be the first week of July? Could his birthday be in but a few weeks? He couldn't believe it. It had been too many days since he had slept, spending all of his time in the kitchen bottling various potions and looking up many complicated spells and making many very long lists. Could it already be time? He couldn't believe it.

Everyone was removing themselves from the remnants of the coffee table. Ron gave Harry a wave, Ginny gave him a small smile, and Hermione gave him a small jut of the head that communicated "get over here, dung brains!".

"So ... can I go, Uncle Vernon?" Harry asked tentatively, edging towards the raging bull.

There was a _ding_ from the kitchen and everyone jumped.

"Get my dinner and get out," fumed Uncle Vernon, sitting back down in his armchair and changing the channel on the television angrily, a definite omen of the return to normalcy. Hermione set the table back to rights and then the coffee-table-breaking party followed Harry's trail, as he had scuttled back to the kitchen.

"Zey are not vehry nice," Fleur said plainly once in the kitchen.

"Didn't we tell you about the time they put bars on his window—" asked George.

"Good story, tha' one!" Fred chimed in, snatching Fleur's attention away and launching into the tale extensively, embellishing freely as he went along and giving Ron and Hermione a chance to approach Harry, who was coaxing a large roast from the oven. Ron's eyes bugged out at the sight of the meat.

"Harry!" Hermione squealed in displeasure.

"What? I figured out how to cook," Harry fanned the roast with his pot-mittened hands and looked over at Hermione. "It's not that bloody difficult."

"Not that—cooking, Harry—argh!" she spluttered, "THAT!" and she pointed angrily to Harry's Felix Felicis, which was sloshing of its own accord, brightest gold, and burbling merrily in the cauldron on the stove top ... with her hands on her hips, her hair pulled back tight, her lips pursed and her toe tapping for an explanation, she looked fiercer than Professor McGonagall. Harry pinkened around the ears.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"You used that book, didn't you?"

"So what?"

"It's perfect," Ron mewed over the potion, his eyes just a little glazed over.

"And just what are you planning to do with a half-made potion when we leave next week, Harry?"

"Actually," Harry retorted, "I already have a plan." He turned and called, "Kreacher!" Ron flinched involuntarily. "Dobby, Winky!" Hermione fixed Harry with a look. "What? I bought Winky from McGonagall; I'm paying Dobby, and Kreacher's mine. _What_?"

_CRACK! _

Dobby and Winky appeared dragging Kreacher between them. Winky looked better for having something to do. Dobby was wearing one of Harry's very old T-shirts. Following their appearance, Dursley bellowed something about breaking dishes and breaking necks, but no one was listening...

"Hello, Harry Potter, sir!" the two bearing Kreacher chimed. Dobby shook Kreacher's arm.

"Nasty mudblood—" Dobby slapped a hand over Kreacher's mouth.

"It's fine, Dobby," Harry said, grabbing the Felix off the stove with his oven mitts and bringing it to Dobby and Winky. "You remember what to do?" he asked.

"Yes, sir!" Winky squeaked happily, twisting Kreacher's other arm with a subdued vengeance. Harry heard Ron chuckling behind him. Harry wondered if he and Ron were still technically members of SPEW ...

"Good luck, then," Harry said casually. "I doubt I'll be back before it's ready ..."

"We'll be ready, Harry Potter, sir!" Dobby squeaked and, with a wave from Winky and muffled curses from Kreacher, all three Disapparated.

"My dinner, boy!" Uncle Vernon roared from the living room. Everyone in the kitchen either jumped or flinched. Harry headed for the pot roast.

"Oh, let us get that for you, Harry!" Bill said quickly, flicking his wand at the roast. It rose a foot out of the pan and began slicing itself. Harry made to get plates and silverware, but Fred, George, Fleur, Ron, and Hermione were all getting things done splendidly. Ginny tapped Harry on the shoulder and he started. Ginny blushed and laughed a little.

"Harry, why don't you go get changed? We've got everything under control ..." she smiled. Fleur was carrying plates of food towards the front room, muttering, "ze zings I do for you, 'Arry!" Bill was helping her with the plates, beaming. Ron was helping himself to Harry's pot roast with his fingers until Hermione hit him on the hand with the willow wood salad fork. Harry let himself smile for the first time in weeks.

-

Rather than remain in the kitchen and endure the mutterings of Phlegm, Ginny followed Harry out of the kitchen and up the stairs to his room. She hadn't worked out her words completely, but she needed to talk to him, and this had the potential to be their only time away from the others for the rest of the evening.

Harry—completely unaware of his pursuer—threw open the door to his room and stripped himself of his sweater and t-shirt respectively; tossing his glasses onto his bed. Scratching his neck, he wondered where he might find a clean shirt. He stretched his sore arms and back while he thought, feeling tired muscles curl and contract. He scratched his neck with one hand and unzipped his jeans with the other, yawning. He remembered where he had hidden a clean shirt and moved to get it when he heard a sound behind him and spun around, drawing his wand from the jeans that were presently sliding down his backside.

Ginny turned near as red as the Quaffles on Harry's boxers. Her hand flew up to cover her open mouth yet her eyes continually roved the sights before her ... Harry tugged his jeans back up with an indignant huff. He gestured Ginny toward the empty chair at his desk and she sat down without a word.

Harry folded his arms over his chest and regarded the beautiful, blushing redheaded regarding him, traversing him over the tips of her fingers. She appeared far more embarrassed than he felt, but continued roving blatantly over him. He leaned against his bed frame and continued to watch her as she finally closed her eyes and put her head down, testing the heat of her cheeks on the delicate back side of her hand. Moments passed between them in near silence, the muffled voices of the evening news drifting natantly from the rooms below.

"I didn't mean to," Ginny said at last, her voice quiet and almost awkward in what was quickly becoming a very small, confined space. "I didn't want to be nosy or ..." Harry lunged for the shirt he had been looking for, slipping it on and doing up a few buttons in her silence. "Harry, I'm really sorry! I didn't mean to upset you, I just wanted to talk to you—"

"It's fine, Ginny. I'm not upset." Harry had stopped buttoning his shirt and gazed at her. Her green eyes nearly melted something inside him... nearly. He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, resigning himself to fate and the conversation he had seen coming since the day he left Hogwarts. Harry sat down on his bed and asked, "You wanted to talk to me about something?"

"Yes," Ginny said more solidly, looking up from the floor and fixing him square in the eye, "but I don't know if we have the time now..." she glanced at the still-open door through which the gentle hum of voices could be discerned. Harry, too, knew that the others shouldn't be kept waiting... but he had to give Ginny the closure that he knew she would want.

"It's alright, Ginny. Best to have this out now; besides..." Harry cast a quick _Muffliato_ towards the door. He abandoned buttoning his shirt and left it hanging half open as he rearranged himself on the bedspread. He kept his eyes on Ginny's soft face, watching for... anything. "I don't know when we'll be alone again."

"Harry," she said, fixing him with a Mrs. Weasley-esque glare to evoke symptoms of guilt from sordid and clean alike, "that's partially what I wanted to discuss—all of this talk about going off and chasing You-Know-Who. Harry!" The look worsened, if that's even possible, and preventing Harry's protests before they began. "I'm not asking you to stay because I know that's something you can't do. By all means, go! Harry, I'll wish you luck because I believe in you, and because I know you'll always do the right thing ..." she stopped, looking deep into his eyes.

"Thanks, Ginny," Harry was able to mutter awkwardly, not knowing what else to say, "that... er, means a lot."

She smiled at him, large green eyes like pools calling all the light of the room to themselves. Harry was so easily taken in—she could control him with a phrase or a look... or just her presence. He was mesmerized.

"Harry," she said softly, her lashes fluttering as she drank him in, and he was drawn further and farther still, "I know you have to go after him, but let me come with you... you and Hermione and Ron. We could all go together; you can find You Know Who, and I can be there for you. You wouldn't have to worry about me," she assured him, reading the expression on his face all too clearly, "I can hold my own and you know it! Please, Harry, let me come with you..."

"I..." Harry's lips had gone mysteriously slack as Ginny spoke; he couldn't conjure a response for the life of him. Her eyes and her hair, her lips, her smile—they were drawing him in. He couldn't say no, he couldn't possibly refuse her, he just couldn't ...

"You ready, Harry?" Ron called up the stairs, breaking the aching silence and tearing Harry away from Ginny's eyes and back into reality.

"Yeah, just about, mate!" Harry called back. He turned to Ginny, "We'll talk about this later, alright?" She gave no response except to make a somewhat skeptical noise. "Really, Ginny, I'll think on it, okay? We've got to get going..." She nodded curtly and stood up. Harry returned to buttoning his shirt, giving himself an excuse not to look at her, an excuse to regain his senses before he lost his mind in her eyes.

"It was nice," Ginny said sweetly as he stood.

"Wha' was?" he asked, realizing that he had skipped a button and undoing half his work to correct it.

"It was nice," she repeated slowly, fixing him with a beautiful, sorrowful expression, "being alone with you."

And she was coming towards him... or was he going towards her? It was all too fuzzy. It was all too close and soft, warm, and somehow disorienting. He knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't help himself wrapping his arms around her, feeling her hot breath on his shoulder, his neck, his cheek. He pulled her flesh against him, thrilled by the shape and feel of her body against his. He exalted in the feel of her lips and tongue and teeth. She shuddered against him as he pressed up to her; her breath caught, her chest hitched tightly on his ribs. She seemed to moan against him and yet he found the power to tear himself away from her at last.

_She makes me crazy_, he realized.

"I'm coming, Ron!" he shouted as he snatched up his cloak from a knob on the dresser. He kept his eyes to the carpet, feeling rather than seeing her gaze hotly on him as she strode slowly to the doorway and turned out the light. He informed himself that he had just kissed Ginny Weasley goodbye.

He threw his cloak about his shoulders, fastening it tightly. His cloak billowed out behind him as he went out the door.

-

-

-

Dust kicked up from the floor as Harry and Hermione landed squarely in the middle of the Leaky Cauldron's storage room. When Harry had taken Hermione's proffered arm, Ron had smiled and said that he would rather keep his eyebrows too, should he have a choice in the matter. Hermione had remained indignant, warning Ron that whatever inevitably went wrong was ultimately his fault for Apparating without a license, and so on...

She released Harry's arm to brush dust from his shoulders. As she was running her fingers through his hair—to get rid of the dust, naturally—Fred, George, and Ginny Apparated by the door way, followed by Bill and then Fleur. Ginny looked blankly from Harry to Hermione and then left .. along with the bottom of Harry's stomach. He felt horrible... and he didn't even like Hermione that way, besides! He turned to follow Ginny, but Hermione turned him back to face her, rubbing at a smudge on his nose invisible to him. She fluffed his ever-messy hair and tutted softly. They were the only ones in the dusty storeroom.

"Hermione, honestly!" Harry said hotly, disengaging himself from Hermione's grasp before she could finish doing up the last few buttons of his shirt. He let out steam in the form of a firm exhalation and finished his shirt himself.

After a loud thump and liquid crashings, Ron's panicked "sorry's" could be heard from the dining area of the Leaky Cauldron. "C'mon, Ron" and "sorry, Tom" could be distinguished as coming from Fred and George as they undoubtedly dragged Ron off to the party in Diagon Alley.

"Harry, you're a mess," Hermione said bluntly, fixing him squarely with yet another pointed look and redirecting his attention.

Harry realized he was buttoning his shirt awfully crooked. He surrendered, dropping his arms at his sides and watching over Hermione's shoulder as she did up his shirt. She made several more tutting sounds.

"This is about Ginny, isn't it." She gestured to his right eye, which was twitching of its own accord every two to three seconds. Her voice made the question a statement, silently daring Harry to try and contradict it. Harry simply nodded, his lips numb for the second time in a matter of minutes. "I'll bet," Hermione mused knowingly, "she wants to come with us, doesn't she?"

"Yeah, but she can't." Hermione cocked her head to one side, listening intently, expectantly awaiting his pending line of reason. Her expression said "this better be good."

"If Voldemort found out how I feel about her, he'd take her and use her to lure me into another trap... I can't put her in that kind of danger, you see?"

"Yes, Harry, I do," Hermione sighed and put a consoling hand on his shoulder.

"Plus," he added, blushing, "my brain kind of... turns to mush when she looks at me, you know?"

Hermione smiled. "Yes, I do."

"We should get going," Harry said, coming to his senses, "or pretty soon everyone will start worrying..."

"Shall we?" Hermione had offered her arm. Harry took it with a grin.

"Let's go!"

-

Ginny was much farther up Diagon Alley, talking loudly to Fred and George, gesticulating wildly, manically. Harry felt like dragon dung. Bill and Fleur were walking in a lip-lock behind the irate Ginny. Hermione rolled her eyes at the happy couple. The party at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes could be heard from Gringotts. Harry marveled at the happy noise of people, music, and free Weasley's samples—Fred and George's patented fireworks shot relentlessly, one after another into the evening sky.

"Wait 'til you see everyone, Harry!" Hermione said happily. "You'll never believe who's all come!"

There was a loud crash—something that wasn't meant to be broken—followed by panicked, nearly familiar frightened screams, and Fred and George set off at a run in the distance. With a look, Harry and Hermione started running, too.

-

Human skulls had been thrown through the storefront windows; glass littered the floor and fear littered the faces of the party guests. Familiar faces hung out of the upstairs windows; Mrs. Weasley wanted to know what had happened and if everyone was alright; Mr. Weasley wanted to know if he should alert the Ministry ...

Charlie came gingerly out the open front door, putting pressure against a nasty gash on his forehead.

"What happened?" Fred asked, approaching Charlie at a run with George at his side.

"Death Eaters," Charlie said curtly, indicating the broken windows and the skulls inside. "Threw those skulls through the windows an' took off down Knocturn Alley."

"You sure they were the real thing, Charlie?" Bill asked, looking wary and worried.

"They were real," Charlie answered, "Dark Mark's on the skulls." Fred and George gaped.

"And there's more..." Tonks had stepped through the broken window pane carrying one of the skulls. "Look," she said, holding it up so Fred and George could get a better view of the skull in her hands.

Harry pulled out his wand and thought _Lumos_, and others quickly did the same in the gathering dark. Written on the back of the skull—in what appeared to be blood—the words "blood traitors."

Many more people were coming out of the shop to see what was happening; Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Lee Jordan, Remus Lupin and Kingsley Shacklebolt, Hagrid and Professor McGonagall, Katie Bell, Oliver Wood, and still other people. They poured out through the doorway and the broken window panes. Expressions ranged from shocked and frightened to insulted and enraged. Fred and George were livid. Fleur was looking worried and clung to Bill, who was near murderous.

"Bit of a weak showing, if you ask me," said a gruff voice from behind Harry. He spun around to find Mad Eye Moody leaning on an old walking stick and breathing heavily. "I've owled the Ministry—fat lotta good it'll do, boys," Moody added to Fred and George in what was, for Moody, a consoling voice.

"Thanks, Moody," Mr. Weasley said—Mrs. Weasley was busy clutching Ginny and Ron to her bosom in what Ron's face claimed was a choke hold.

"Why don't we all head back inside?" Fred suggested, ushering Bill and Fleur towards the door.

"Can't let them spoil the party, right?" George said cheerfully, grabbing a bottle of mead from Lee Jordan and conjuring a large mug for himself out of thin air. People started filtering back into the shop—Moody, McGonagall and Shacklebolt were deep in conversation by the time they stepped through the broken window. Lupin held the door open for Tonks. Oliver Wood asked Katie Bell if she'd care to have a drink with him. Fred and George lingered back under the pretense of watching their guests filter back indoors. Harry hung low behind them, waiting for a word.

"Hey," Harry said quietly once the guests were out of sight and earshot—casting _Muffliato_ and extinguishing his wand just to be sure.

"Hey," the twins said gloomily in turn, passing the bottle of mead between themselves.

"Are we still on for tonight?" Harry asked, his mien recondite. He was passed the bottle of mead and took a large enough swig to draw looks of questioning errancy from the twins. He had a second, equally unfastidious mouthful before passing the now three-quarters empty bottle.

"You still want to go?" Fred asked in disbelief, surveying his denigrated storefront with a bilious eye.

"Oh, yes," Harry muttered, "this settles it. I'm going."

"Right," said George before finishing the bottle.

"We've got everything hidden under the sink in the upstairs bathroom," Fred explained as George drank. "We'll meet you up there in two hours, alright?"

"Gotcha," Harry nodded.

"And be sure to bring a couple more bottles with you," Fred added in a portentous tone as he pointed his wand and refilled George's empty bottle.

"And what are you three talking about so secretively?" Bill called, leaning from an upstairs window.

"Why anybody would want to marry a prying, ugly git such as yourself!" George yelled back convivially, toasting Bill with his fresh bottle.

"I could understand if you were filthy rich, but ..." Fred added an exaggerated shrug. Bill laughed and disappeared from the window. Harry, Fred, and George—throwing their arms over one another's shoulders—shuffled towards the broken window wide enough to admit them. All three lifted a leg in unison ... only to be drenched as Bill and Fleur poured hard liquor on their heads from the upstairs window Bill had abandoned the minute before.

Laughing and dripping with Merlin-knows-what, they stumbled into the party.

-

Harry couldn't believe how quickly two hours had passed! Everyone was having a wonderful time it seemed; Harry had won a year's worth of pocket money by slaughtering Bill's friends at muggle poker, a somewhat tipsy Fleur had mistaken Ron for Bill (and plastered a very passionate kiss on him before realizing her mistake), the Ministry's Response Team had been invited in for a drink, and Hagrid was currently dancing a hearty jig with Fleur's intoxicated grandmother. Even Professor McGonagall's hat was askew as she accepted yet another sherry from Mrs. Weasley. One highly intoxicated Oliver Wood had cornered Harry more than once to reminisce hiccupingly about "the good ole days."

Harry climbed up the heavily populated stairs, the happiest he'd been in a very long time ... also the closest he'd ever been to drunk, but nevertheless very happy, indeed. He was cradling an oblong package in his arms—a package which McGonagall had bestowed upon him long before her rounds with Mrs. Weasley began. She had been very somber in handing him that package, telling him that it contained some of Dumbledore's possessions that he had wished to go directly to Harry. Even while the closest he'd ever been to drunk, Harry clung to that package for dear life. It was an awkward shape, and he could hear some small item tinkeling as he navigated his way up the crowded stairwell. He had to get to Fred and George's bathroom ... and hopefully sober up once there ...

The door was closed, so he knocked.

"Someone's in here!" Fred's somewhat agitated voice echoed around the room, suggesting it was tiled.

"It's me," Harry whispered, as clandestine as he could given that he was whispering to a door in a somewhat inebriated state.

The door was wrenched open; Harry was grabbed, dragged in, and the door was slammed without further ceremony.

The room _was_ tiled: in white and sage. George was perched on top of the toilet tank and Fred was leaning against the sink. There was a large collection of gadgets on the floor, and a pile of robes on the lip of the bathtub. Harry removed several bottles of mead and fire whiskey from the crook of his arm and set them on the floor.

"You ready?" George asked, standing up.

"Yeah. Let's do this," Harry moved to set down his package but found he couldn't manage to get it out of his hands.

"What's in the box?" Fred asked.

"Dunno."

"Well, where'd you get it?"

"McGonagall."

"She say anything about it?"

"Said it's some stuff ... from Dumbledore."

"Wow," George sat down again.

"You wanna open it?" Fred offered his pocket knife.

"Um," Harry paused. _Something of Dumbledore's might help_ said a voice in his head, a voice that sounded like his father, or Sirius. Harry accepted the knife. "Sure. Wouldn't hurt to have a look ..."

Fred held the package while Harry sliced it open.

"Merlin's beard!" George whispered, peering over his brother's shoulder. "Gryffindor's sword!"

"Blimey, Harry," Fred's hands were shaking under the package. But the sword wasn't the first thing Harry saw ...

"What's that?"

Harry had recognized it instantly; the cracked black stone set in gold, bits of dust set deep inside the detailing. "It was Slytherin's. Voldemort was using it, so Dumbledore ... that's how he hurt his hand, I think ..."

There was also a letter (which Harry decided to leave for later) and an envelope labeled "office contents and personal effects" with a Gringotts key inside.

"What're you supposed to do with those?" George asked.

"Put them in my house, I guess," Harry said.

"Your house?" Fred questioned.

"Yeah," Harry admitted, "Grimmauld Place, you know?"

"Woah," the twins said in rare unison. Harry felt awkward.

"We should get on with this, though," he said. "What're the bottles for, then?"

"Well," Fred said after placing the package on the floor, for lack of a better place to put it, "we were going to dump one over you, but Bill already did that—you smell gorgeous," he added, sniffing Harry's head sarcastically.

"One you would take with you, for show as much as just in case things got ugly," George explained.

"And the rest are for us to drink while we wait for you to come back alive," Fred finished. "You're _real_ sure about all this, Harry?" Both twins looked worried.

"You got the potions, I take it?" They nodded. "And the powder?" They nodded again. "Then let's do this."

-

"Was the punching telescope really necessary?" Harry muttered, his eye blackened, his lip cut and his jaw bruised.

"Sorry," Fred mumbled, smearing more of the dried-blood-and-mud mixture on the ripped shirt Harry now wore. "Couldn't bear to hit you ourselves."

"Thanks," Harry said through his fat lip. "George, I'll need the Felix and the Eagle Eye soon."

"First we've got to take care of that voice," Fred said, riffing through the gadgets now strewn about the inside of the bathtub.

"Is my voice really that bad?" Harry asked, unconsciously stroking his Adam's apple and listening intently to the sound of his own voice.

"Nah," George shook his head. "It ... sorta announces 'My voice just changed last year and I still lose my nerve around pretty girls!' That's all." George returned to grinding powdered snake's venom into the rustier spaces of an old dagger.

"Oh, ace!" Harry said sarcastically.

"Quit yer whining and breathe into this," Fred held up what looked like an ancient harmonica.

"What is it?"

"It's a prototype we're working on for the Aurors at the Ministry—you're not the only one interested in disguising yourself ..." George said while tipping a second dagger.

"We call it our _Vocal Assimilator_—reconstruct the sound of yer voice and put it back again." Fred held the Assimilator up to Harry's mouth. "We've got _Youth_ and _Age_: this one's _Age_. Now hold this and breathe," and without further ado, Fred shoved the Age Assimilator into Harry's mouth and started tapping on various tiny levers jammed and wedged into the holes that once would have controlled the pitch of the harmonica. One lever on the top would slide from side to side and Harry could make out scratches labeled 'higher' and 'lower.' Fred slid the lever all the way towards 'lower' and told Harry to talk.

"What should ..." Harry stopped because he sounded something like James Earl Jones.

"Too deep," George commented. "Try half way." Fred corrected the depth and asked Harry to speak again.

"What are these other pieces here?" he asked, indicating the other levers.

"_Cough, Wheeze, Nasal, Rumble, Rasp,_" George listed off.

"And _Smoker,_" Fred added, "my favorite. Thought it would be good on you."

"How do you control it?" Harry asked, marveling at the difference in his voice already.

"Higher to lower slides along the top, here," Fred demonstrated. "The other attributes lock into four different strengths, creatively entitled numbers one, two, three, and four," he droned playfully.

"How about a number three smoker?" George suggested.

"Yeah, ok," Harry said. "Mind if I try?"

"Knock yourself out," Fred smiled.

After a surprisingly short amount of time, Harry found himself vastly pleased by the effects of a number three smoker, number two rumble, and number ones in rasp and wheeze. Harry decided he sounded more than middle-aged; weathered, hollow and tired. He said a few syllables in Parseltongue and reveled in the sinister sound.

George shivered and passed Harry two small tubes, one filled with murky blue and the other with liquid gold.

"That's all the Eagle's Eye you could get?" Harry whined.

"On such short notice, yeah! That stuff's not cheap," George answered, handing Harry the poison-tipped daggers. "Drink up. You're gunna need it."

Harry slipped the daggers into their notches on his belt and downed the potions. After a somewhat dry-eyed, nauseating sensation, Harry found he wouldn't be needing his glasses after all. He handed Fred his glasses, watch, trainers, and old trousers, slipping into black pants and a pair of dragon hide boots with matching gloves—all of which caked in blood ... it was mainly garden gnome, but who had to know? George handed him a black hat. Harry thought it was a joke: with a ridiculous, cartoonishly-wide brim, pinned up on one side with a red phoenix feather, and an over-all muggle "three musketeers" look about it ... it couldn't have been anything other than a joke.

"You're kidding," Harry said blatantly.

"It's the best we could do to hide your face," Fred explained hastily. "Just put it on and get going Harry."

Harry sighed and put it on. He felt ridiculous. No one in their right mind would buy his disguise. He looked in the mirror ...

... and felt Felix tell him to tip it forward over his left eye.

"Perfect," he hissed in Parseltongue. And, with a tip of his hat and a swish of his cloak, he leapt out the window


	2. The Lion & The Fox

**TITLE: "THE GUNMAN"**

**AUTHOR: **sordid humor

**AUTHOR E-MAIL: **Adventure

**SUB-CATEGORY: **Humor; Romance; Drama

**RATING:** fine, PG-13, already! don't let the six-year-olds see Harry Potter drunk ...

**DISCLAIMER: **

I do not own them in a box,

I do not own them with a fox,

I do not own them while I'm bowling,

They all belong to J.K. Rowling.

Realistically, I think we all know by now who's making several billion euros a year off the boy who lived, and we all know that's not me. No copyright infringement intended, sorry-sorry, et cetera, et cetera. You know the drill.

- Much love of the split-chapter sentence; kudos to Miguel De Cervantes, _Don Quixote_.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **

namagomi mazoku, I do hope you're bleeping happy.

count: 4400 running: 10,600

German done by yours truly.

I have a great attachment to Vampire Hunter D, most especially Bloodlust. Fellow lovers of D, please don't panic. I'm working on a side angle for partially comedic effects. Fans of D will be in stitches by about chapter ten, I hope... if you don't know Vampire Hunter D, you should. If you don't think I'm funny, you're not alone, rest assured. Please feel free to make suggestions: though "go to hell" is tried but true, I'm open to the evolution of ever-vigilant vituperation... but never calumniation; no, never...

((don't question the lexicon))

**PART I**

**CHAPTER II: **

**THE LION & THE FOX**

down the ladder the twins had placed there, and was on his way to Knockturn Alley.

-

He crept between shadows, endolithic with the dark. He kept his head down and the feather in his hat held irascibly high. Decent people skirted him in the street, whether from the mien or the effluvium he never bothered to discern. He was on a mission. His mind was ahead of his actions.

Soon he turned down an alley, away from the affronted glances and fearful inhalations. Few others walked the alley, giving him leave to walk with his back straight and head up. He quickened his pace as he scanned the windows of dusty shops, awaiting some pinching of his innards that might alert him as to where he should go next.

He slowed as he saw a woman approach from the shadows at some distant end of the alley. Her sheets of dark hair reflected non-existent light. Framed by the hair was a pinched face; hollow, much like the appearance of his own. He recognized her from a distance and halted in a dark space, tipping his hat to further obscure his face as she neared... but he was too late. She had seen him and was fast approaching.

Possessed by the potions imbibing his brain, he stepped forward into her path.

She started, reaching for her wand yet he already had his wand as well as his crooked, poison-tipped dagger held fast to her throat. Her black eyes snapped fully open in shock or fear.

"Bellatrix Lestrange," he vituperated in an accent he himself could not place, "what you have done... let us simply say:" he was scaring himself, "what you have done does not sit well amongst many of my acquaintance." Bellatrix had gone white. "You would do well to take caution in the future." He traced the tip of his blade across her neck, watching her worried eyes fall to it, warily. He paused, spit in her face, and stormed cholericly into the nearest dirty building. He heard rather than saw her run.

"Highly impressive, Mister...?" said an unmistakable number four rasp from the back of what Harry found to be a bookshop. A knobbly, white haired man in dusty black robes emerged from shoulder-high piles of books stretching back as far as the naked eye could see. Harry could make out a back wall of shelves bearing jars of fermenting mysteries in varying shades of brown and yellow sludge, shelves framing a small fireplace. The old man offered Harry a liver-spotted hand. "Mister...?"

"D," Harry said, mysterious accent firmly intact and Felix controlling his every breath.

"I take it you're a bounty hunter, Mister D," the man rasped. Harry merely nodded in ascent and adjusted his hat. "Aunders Kavall. What can I do for you?"

"My daughter," Harry heaved a sigh and gesticulated furtively. "She... has her mother's looks, but my blood..."

"I understand, Mister D," Kavall warmed immediately, conjuring Harry a comfortable, moth-eaten armchair and resting himself precariously on a shortish pile of books. "I, too, am a father."

"Young women can be murder, if one is not careful."

Harry watched Aunders Kavall's angular, wrinkled face creak into a battered smile. The old man laughed bitterly, earnestly; as though everything he had ever striven to know had been reduced to a single sentence.

"I believe we understand one another, Herr Kavall," Harry said quietly, relaxing back into his armchair and allowing his hat to slip slightly to the side, revealing a bruised jaw and the side of his face.

"Und ein Österreicher, auch, Herr D?" (And an Austrian as well, Mr. D?) Kavall lit up, smoothing the many fine hairs that ornamented the top of his head and leaning further forward on his stack of books.

"Deutsch ist Ihre zweite Sprache, richtig?" (German is your second language, correct?) While the mysterious Mr. D was eerily chilled and mildly detached, Harry was in a state of panic... _I know German? How am I going to pull off this disguise again? What the hell am I doing? ... and what the hell kind_ _of name is _D?

"Sie haben recht, in wirklichkeit," (You're right, actually) Kavall conceded with a nod. "Aber zu Ihrer tochter, bitte!" (But, please, back to your daughter!) he offered, pinkening about what Harry could only assume was a terrible accent on Kavall's German. Harry's guts seemed to have been curiously replaced by a mixture of cement and gelatin—heavy on the bottom and nauseatingly wiggly toward the top. He prayed his Felix would hold up.

"... von meinem Mädchen..." (about my daughter) _Stop speaking bloody German!_ Harry's mind screamed at his lips. "Sie ist so viel eine schöne Frau am diesem Tages... (She's very much a beautiful woman these days) Harry put a hand to his cheek and leaned forward to confide in Kavall... in English, he hoped. "I agreed to teach her... _some_ of what I know," D and Kavall exchanged a private, devious, knowing smile—Harry was glad he could understand himself. "I recently took a very large commission. She was enraged when I would not allow her any part with it—she stormed out of the castle and I did not hear from her for weeks... she is very bold in that way," Kavall smiled ruefully, as though he knew all-too-well about bold women.

"This was one month ago," D said while brushing a bit of dust off his knee. Kavall regarded him very closely, seeming very clearly curious to know what had happened to D's daughter. Harry was curious too, he realized with a minor jolt. "This morning I learned she had been captured."

"Ich bin allein, mein Herr!" (That's terrible, sir! o_r _I'm terribly sorry, sir!) Kavall really did look shocked, Harry was interested to see. The old man was wringing his bony fingers in his lap.

"Dankeschön," (Thank you) Harry said as he leaned against an arm of the chair. "She was... too bold, you see. Not enough precaution, not enough cover, no alternate plan, hardly a disguise... it is remarkable she was not killed."

"She is alive?" Kavall asked, sounding relieved.

"Ja, gewiβ," (Yes, of course) Harry checked the brim of his hat with a blood-crusted, gloved forefinger. "She is, after all, my daughter." Kavall smiled.

"Her capture is the reason I have come," Harry said plainly, gesturing lightly around Kavall's bookshop. "I am a devoted follower of more ancient magics, and understand you are the only man I must know in England." Kavall merely reddened and made a miniature bow on his precarious little seat.

"Whatever I may help you find..." Kavall added.

"Disguises, as well as the best protection gold can attain," Harry said bluntly. "And I am always looking for curses with a ... pointed effect," and another errant smirk was shared between them. "Yet—more than anything—I will need a way to correct my daughter's ways. Immediately. I must make her cunning."

Kavall shot up. "I have just the thing!" And he disappeared behind towers of dusty books, many of them rising from the floor and fleeing from his hasty path. Soon the air was full of natant books—like too many fish in one tank—jostling one another and casting down dust like rain. Harry stood and was soon crowded by the books: they peeked under his hat and navigated the regions between his body and his cloak. He could not move without being gently assailed, trapped in a hazy sea of floating tomes.

He snatched a leather bound volume from a place on his body it surely did not belong. Clearing away the dust, he saw that the leather was deep green and had once been written upon in gold, though the letters were now long since faded. He opened the cover and found a title; _The Darkest Room: Illusion & Elusion_ by Salhim Ahmed Shakbar and translated by A. Kavall. Intrigued, Harry turned a few pages to find the table of contents.

"Part I: Elusion," he read aloud, "Chapter one, Evasion in Cities; Chapter two, Evasion in Large Buildings; Chapter three, Evasion in Small Buildings; Chapter four, Evasion in Single Rooms." In excitement, he skimmed farther down the page. "Part II: Illusion... Chapter one, Fear, Shock, Anger, & Other Emotions; Chapter two, Physical Appearance; Chapter three, Disease & Death," Harry let out a low whistle.

"Ah, _The Darkest Room_! I hadn't thought of it!" Kavall had returned bearing a number of books. "Egyptian illusions, yes—some of the best ancient magic there is, Mister D. My great-grandfather, Adrian Kavall, translated it... though I believe that's the only English copy remaining," Kavall tutted sadly. "The Ministry of Magic has the other 49..."

"I shall have to see about returning a few, in that case," Harry said covertly. "Such treasures should not go unseen," and he closed the book, tucking it under his arm. Kavall smiled and bowed, conjuring a long table and setting down his load of books for Harry's approval.

"This is _The Book of Talismans_," Kavall said, sliding a smallish, black book across the table, its silver bracings leaving tiny scratches in the wood. "Quite useful if you'd like to read up on recognizing or using them, but positively instrumental if you're interested in creating a very powerful protective talisman."

"_100 Days_, which is another book of illusions—more contemporary, but rooted in the classics. Also has some wonderful mind illusions and memory tricks which are near impossible to guard against. I also brought out _The Mind's Eye_, but _The Darkest Room_ will serve you far better I believe." Harry leafed through _100 Days_, which had charts and diagrams enough to keep Hermione perplexed for days, but the memory charms did look doable, even to a dunce like himself.

"This," Kavall rasped almost reverently, stroking a hand over an especially dusty wooden box, "this is a true one-of-a-kind," Kavall appeared suddenly very nervous, as though he doubted the safety of his own establishment. His eyes flashed about in a purely paranoid fashion as he leaned forward and said below a deathly whisper, "spoken by the Dark Lord himself and penned by his followers. Each gave curses and spells enough to fill every page..." Kavall drifted off, still caressing the box with a misty look in his eye.

"How did you come to have it?" Harry asked, feigning skepticism as per Felix's instructions.

"The Ministry does a poor job of raiding homes, you see... they pass over dusty boxes in the libraries of suspected Death Eaters," Kavall shook his head and smiled savagely. "One of my men found it under a floorboard," he chuckled.

"Which speaks volumes for the man who hid it there," Harry said scathingly.

_The best place to hide is in the open_.

It flashed through his head, though he couldn't seem to place it. "How can you prove its authenticity?"

"Have a look for yourself, friend," Kavall smirked, opening the box with a series of charms and handing Harry a book almost identical to the diary of Tom Riddle's that Harry had encountered during his second year. Harry opened the book to an arbitrary page, which—due to Felix Felicis—proved not so completely random at all.

"_Sectumsempra" _read the top of the page.

Harry snapped the book shut.

"How much do you want for it?" he said firmly.

"200,000 galleons."

"No," Harry handed the book back. Kavall looked shocked.

"175,000, then."

"My answer is still no," Harry insisted. "It is not worth my head, being found with such a thing."

"120,000." Kavall was clearly distraught.

"I have never traveled with so much as a tenth of such a sum."

"I see..." Kavall wrung his hands. Harry could see perspiration on the old man's brow... then his angled face lit up. "But there is a spell here—one for your daughter!" He scurried to find the page and then handed the book proudly to Harry. "The Lion & The Fox... you see? Bold and cunning combined. Yes, I knew you'd like it!"

Harry did not bother to read the spell—Felix told him that the spell was right and it could be done. Harry even recognized the handwriting as being the same as that of Tom Riddle's diary, which gave him an idea...

"This spell was written by the Dark Lord himself," Kavall muttered, barely audible.

"No," Harry said firmly, tossing the book back yet again and watching the perspiration on Kavall's forehead turn to desperation... and Harry knew just what to do. "This is a woman's writing, not the Dark Lord's, and you and I both know it, _Mister_ Kavall," Harry spat. "I knew her once; she died before the Dark Lord came to power—_before_," Harry repeated contemptuously, pausing before he went on, "meaning that this book was part of a personal collection, but _not_ the Dark Lord's collection, Mister Kavall." Harry turned away to pace the room.

"Mister D," Kavall pleaded, taking a step around his table to chase after Harry like a house elf. His breath was shallow, coming quickly and in sharp pulls. There was a defined note of panic in his voice. _So,_ Harry realized, _he doesn't know what he has_. "Please," Kavall clutched at the back of Harry's robes. Harry turned out of the man's grasp.

"How much for the others?" he asked flatly.

"500 galleons, a bargain," Kavall offered plaintively.

"I'll give you 400 for all of it."

Kavall bowed his head. A bounty hunter could simply kill him and take the book. Worse, a hunter could simply leave knowing what Kavall had stolen. This bounty hunter could report him to the Ministry of Magic. He could tell the true owner where the book was, and where would that leave Kavall? He had absolutely no choice. This bounty hunter was too good. The man really is who he says. Kavall sighed.

Harry emptied two of his three purses onto the table as Kavall wrapped his purchases.

"A pleasure doing business with you," Harry said in a somber voice, tucking his parcels under his cloaked arm.

"A word of caution, if I may, Herr D?" Kavall said breathlessly as Harry turned to go. "You may want to be careful with your accent... it's memorable..." There was an awkward silence between them.

"To be sure," Harry replied coldly, suddenly without any accent. "Good evening, Mr. Kavall."

"Good evening, Mister D."

And Harry departed with a minor flourish of the hat and cloak.

-

-

-

"Boo!"

"AAHHH!"

"WOAAAA!"

_CRASH!_

"Don't scare us like tha', Harry!" Fred Weasley wheezed, catching his breath as he and George clung to one another in the aftermath of inebriated fright. Harry climbed the rest of the way through the window, removing his hat with another flourish—and a particularly self-satisfied one at that. Fred and George broke apart as they took in the arrogant smirk on Harry's face and the parcel under his arm.

"How'd it go?" George asked.

"You can never imagine..." Harry sighed, pirouetting about the bathroom in the giddiest of all fashions. "But I'm not done yet," he informed, holding up a playfully flippant finger.

"What's going on, Harry?" Fred insisted, halting the jovial spinning by seizing Harry firmly by the shoulders.

"Better not to know," was Harry's portentous response. "Could you hold these for me?" he offered his parcels.

"What are they?"

"Best not to know," he insisted, "but I suggest you not open them," and he forked over the books. "I need to settle about Dumbledore's things at Gringotts. Half an hour more, alright?" The twins nodded and Harry snatched up the Gringotts key. "We're out of the woods now, men."

Fred and George jumped, panic-stricken as the bathroom door flew open.

"What's going on in here?" Ginny demanded of her older brothers, hands on her hips and her mother's fire in her eyes. "I heard yelling—and who jumped out the window?"

"Window? Rubbish, woman! Dunno wha' yer talkin' about," Fred insisted in a convincingly drunken voice.

"Don't you dare lie to your own sister..."

Harry chuckled merrily to himself, making his way down the ladder and stealing off into the night once more.

-

"Winky! Kreacher! Dobby!"

_CRACK, CRACK, CRACK! _

"Kreacher, not a word out of you unless it's 'Yes, master.'"

"Yes, master."

"Hello, Winky. Hello, Dobby."

"Forgive Winky, sir, but... master sounds funny..."

"Yes, Harry Potter, sir!"

"It's a long story, Winky. Can you three disguise yourselves as other house elves? You know, look different? Change your clothes into rags like Kreacher's?"

_CRACK! _

"Ace. In need you to get some things from Gringotts and bring them back to the house. You must understand that these things could be very dangerous if they fall into the wrong hands. I need them to be safe—"

"Harry Potter can trust us!"

"And you must tell no one—you must swear it."

"Yes, Harry Potter, sir!"

"Yes, sir!"

"_Swear it_."

"Yes, master."

"Come with me—we haven't got much time..."

-

-

-

Gringotts was empty but for a few goblins scribbling menacingly in their notes and a few moths flitting near the candles sparsely stationed around the main hall. Harry—the only human in the place, he noted awkwardly—approached the nearest goblin, Dobby, Winky and Kreacher in toe.

He cleared his throat loudly.

Nothing.

He cleared it again.

Still nothing.

"Excuse me." It came out more gruffly than Harry had intended, his temporarily deep voice making him sound impatient and annoyed rather than tentative and inquiring, as he had actually intended.

"What do you want?" the goblin snarled back, not taking his eyes from his notes. Customer service was obviously making a come-back amongst the goblin race.

"I'm here to empty my vault," Harry retorted sourly. He dropped his key onto the goblin's book with an air of blasé detachment to rival any Malfoy.

The goblin picked up the key and stared at it blankly. Then he looked up at Harry for the first time, and with a puzzled, somewhat worried expression now creasing his ugly face. Then he took off at a speed which Harry had previously doubted goblins were capable of.

Harry tapped his foot impatiently. Dobby and Winky leaned against the goblin's high desk. Kreacher looked as though he had something scathing, vituperating, or perhaps menially vicious to say. "Not a word," Harry reminded him arrogantly.

"Yes, master," he mumbled.

"Sir?"

Three goblins had appeared while Harry was dealing with Kreacher.

"Are the elves to take your belongings?"

"Yes," Harry replied, "but I'd like to make sure everything is in order, if you don't mind," he added.

"Then please come with us."

-

Past two fierce-looking dragons and a legion of goblins seemingly on patrol, Harry came to rest before possibly the most heavily fortified door he had ever seen. It took the goblin five different keys and ten minutes of "scratch here" and "poke there" just to get the door open. And beyond the door a hundred yards of memories... an underground lake leading to another door, reminding Harry of such a lake where he and Dumbledore had...

He cleared his mind of any such thoughts and climbed obediently into the tiny boat that the goblin had drug up by a chain. Dobby, Winky and Kreacher clambered in after their master. The goblin gave the boat a push, and it began to glide natantly across the lake.

"Dobby," Harry muttered under his breath to the elf at his elbow, "do you think you can move anything from this deep underground?"

"Yes, Harr—sir," Dobby modified his words in the knick of time.

"Alright," Harry adjusted his hat and stood as the boat landed on the opposite bank. "I don't know what's in here... but let's find out."

He stepped out of the boat onto a narrow ledge only to find himself faced with a door without handle, lock or hinges. "Shit."

"Master must put his hand on the door, sir," Winky whispered. "Wand hand, sir!" she corrected just as quietly, as Harry had been about to use his other hand. Knowing the eccentricities of the wizarding world, he may very well have just averted an entire lifetime as an armoire.

"Thanks, Winky."

And the door slid open to reveal the most frightful and painful sight Harry could have imagined—dozens of mysterious little gold gadgets and gizmos silenced, resting dusty and dead on the vault floor; an empty pensive erected on a lonely pedestal; open boxes of precious potions and books that Harry could never dream of comprehending; the Mirror of Erised collecting dust in a corner; pointed hats in varied colors, bearing stars and moons and one still decorated with a Christmas bauble from years ago; Fawkes' empty perch...

"Where should it all be kept, master?" Dobby asked, tugging on the end of Harry's cloak like a lost child.

"Somewhere I won't see it," Harry sighed. "At least for now."

Dobby stepped tentatively away from Harry to join Winky and Kreacher. After a few moments of hushed discussions between Dobby and Winky—Kreacher's remarks being limited to "yes, master"—the three raised their arms and the room seemed to shimmer, bending and swaying as though viewed through heat and haze. Harry blinked slowly, opening his weary eyes to find everything gone.

"Everything done?" Harry inquired brusquely.

"Yes, master," Kreacher responded iritably, siezing the rare opportunity for speech.

"Good. Go take a bath." And Kreacher was gone with a _crack_ and a huff. "Don't expect me for at least a week." Winky and Dobby nodded curteously and were about to disapparate when Harry added, "And please cover that painting in the hall—you know the one," both elves nodded fiercely, suggesting that they had already had some encounter with the late Mrs. Black. "And be careful not to let the potion boil too hard... ruins the potency..."

"Yes, sir," Winky smiled, happy to be given orders like a regular house elf.

"Call if master needs Winky and Dobby again, sir!" Dobby chirped.

_Crack_, and Harry was alone. He clung tightly to his bottle of fire whiskey as he made his way out of the mines and back into the cool night air.

By the time he reached the Weasley's ladder, he proved too drunk to climb it.

-

"... 1... 2... 3!" Fred and George lifted Harry into his bed back at number four. It was close to five in the morning, but the party back at their premesis was still going strong. Fred was looking forward to borrowing Katie Bell from Oliver wood; George was looking forward to trying to get Ron drunk enough to ask Fleur for another kiss. But Harry...

"Poor Harry," Hermione sighed, setting down the package with Gryffindor's sword and starting to untie his trainers. Harry made a noise in his sleep.

"Yeah, poor bloke's gunna have one hell of a hangover when he wakes up," Fred muttered.

"Which'll be sometime next Thursday," George snickered. "Where's that stuff for his eye?" he added as an afterthought.

"Here," Fred handed over the jar and George slathered some onto Harry's black eye.

"Where do you think I should put this?" Hermione asked in general, indicating the oblong package in her arms. Something wasn't quite right about her behavior: she wasn't bossing anybody around, or asking impossible questions...

"His desk, 'suppose," Fred froze in the middle of tugging Harry's cloak out from under his bum. Fred was bent in half at his labor, but his head swiveled up to stare at Hermione. "_Where's the other package?_"

"There was another one?" Hermione looked confused, though she had only had one glass of sherry with Mrs. Weasley... or six... Fred let out a string of curses terrible enough to render Hermione momentarily conscious. She hit him over the back of the head, sherrys or not. Then she went back to...

"He said those were important," George admonished his twin in a sing-song voice. Fred's blank, staring head swiveled around to George.

"Better go get them, then," Fred mocked George's obnoxious tone. Hermione managed to pull off Harry's trainers and Fred managed to get the cloak out from beneath his slumbering corpse... but George hadn't moved at all.

Hermione and Fred fixed him with twin glares.

"Oh, right!" George nodded feebly. "Right." He disapparated, leaving his pants behind in his rush. Hermione giggled a little, hiccuping. Fred looked at her, mock-scandalized.

"I've got it!" George called loudly as he returned, holding the package from Knockturn alley aloft and staggering into the corner of Harry's desk. He didn't appear to notice the absence of his pants from his body.

"SSHHH!" Hermione and Fred hissed together. Vernon Dursley gave a bestial grunt from his bed in the next room. Hermione giggled again, drowning another hiccup as though subduing a discontented populace.

"Oh, right!" George whispered, nodding exaggeratedly... and not entirely on purpose.

"He's the funny drunk," Fred informed the now snoring Harry Potter. "I'm the dashingly handsome drunk," he continued, patting Harry on the shoulder and making his way towards Hermione. "May I have a dance when we get back?" He swung her around in his arms and she giggled yet again.

"Alright," Hermione blushed and smiled... and disapparated coyly. Fred and George—sharing devilishly handsome smirks—followed.


	3. Right

**TITLE: "THE GUNMAN"**

**AUTHOR: **sordid humor

**CATEGORY: **Adventure

**SUB-CATEGORY: **Humor; Romance; Drama

**RATING:** fine, PG-13, et cetera...

**DISCLAIMER: **

I do not own them in a box,

I do not own them with a fox,

I do not own them while I'm bowling,

They all belong to J.K. Rowling.

-Realistically: no copyright infringement intended, sorry-sorry, et cetera, et cetera. You know the drill.

-text excerpt not mine (duh). If you don't know who it is, I'll gouge your eyes out with a a rusty lead spork... the dirty, "used" sort from untrustworthy public cafeterias... I'm kidding. If you don't know already, Harry finds out in chapter eighteen, anyway.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **

Glad to know you're satisfied, mazoku... ;;

count: 6400 running count: 17,000

... as though I'm bloody Faulkner, or Joyce! paid by the word... claps hands

Yes, I'm aware that we're not familiar with the idea of Fred and George hitting on an intoxicated Hermione—just because J.K. Rowling doesn't put it in a children's novel doesn't magically make it... _no longer REAL_! I'm a realist. I also believe in metaphor and effective articulation, but that's another story. People have different sides; Rowling paints a more public one. I intend to shed some light on the other dimensions of realistic humanity (for more, please see "On A Personal Note" in the Declarative Insert on my bio-ish-thingy around here somewhere, as there are no footnotes to the author's notes of unheard-of fan-fic writers somewhere out there in the internet). On a literary level, I believe that personal vices play key roles in plot escalation (Macbeth, Don Quixote, Romeo/Juliet); Fred and George's womanizing habits crop up again, and so do Harry's repeated "issues" with women, and so does alcohol (Yay! belch). _GET USED TO IT!_ Literature is a reflection of reality, however distorted! It mirrors what we are as well as what we wish to become! _DEAL WITH IT!_

((kudos to those who believe in the intrinsic value of chaos))

((and kudos to those of you who are actually reading this))

**PART I**

**CHAPTER III: **

**RIGHT.**

Harry couldn't figure out what George Weasley's pants were doing on his bedroom floor:

At first, Harry had mistaken the pants for his own, too drunk or sleepy to tell the difference, really. He had tried to put them on before realizing that they were certainly not his trousers, indeed, because he was already wearing trousers: so; therefore, the trousers on his bedroom floor were clearly not his. Right.

Circumventing said atrocities and setting aside any further conjecture for a more appropriate time period, Harry stood up and fell over.

"Stop spinning," he commanded, moaned, crawling along his bedroom floor until he reached the door, which he nuzzled open with his head.

"This is not bloody funny," he insisted to Aunt Petunia's bunny-slippers, which lay abandoned at the crest of the staircase. Harry stood up slowly, bracing himself against the bannister as the whirling image of the bunny slippers mocked him. He extended a foot and commenced thundering down the stairs on his rear end. "Not bloody funny," he mumbled irritably.

Harkening back to the dilemma of the unmanned trousers, he entered the kitchen with the aid of a golfing umbrella he had discovered at the foot of the stairs. How would pants—not his pants—have the audacity to enter his room of their own volition without so much as a prior invitation?

"You," Harry swayed and pointed at his conspicuously corpulent cousin with the golfing umbrella, "they're your trousers, aren't they? Only knickers of your capacity would have the audacity—"

"Dad!" Dudley yelled, "He's awake!" Harry didn't notice.

"I rhyme." Harry was suddenly very pleased with himself for no apparent reason. He released his captive umbrella: it crashed to the linoleum floor as he made his way to the stove to poach an egg.

Vernon Dursley roared into the room wearing a golfing sweater and matching hat with an organge pom-pom seated at the top. Harry prodded his egg in the boiling water, nonchalant.

"BOY!" Dursley bellowed contemptuously, nearing. "DO YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS?"

"Breakfast," Harry smiled, indicating his egg.

"IT'S FOUR IN THE BLOODY AFTERNOON!" he thundered... then paused disagreeably. "What's that I smell?" He sniffed the air as though further investigating suspicions of a conspiracy via scent.

"Egg," Harry responded aimiably.

"BOY!" Dursley eploded, spit hitting Harry's hands and face as he guarded his egg with detatched nonchalance. "_ARE YOU DRUNK_?"

"Oh, no," Harry chided, "never, old chap," and he actually clapped Uncle Vernon on the shoulder like an old schoolmate, giddy. "I am not drunk," He clarified to no one's belief but his own, holding up a conciliatory finger. "I," and with convivial jovility, "have a hangover!"

The conciliatory finger was waved lucidly for a distinct period of time before the puce man screamed.

Dursley leapt for Harry, who had calmly side-stepped to find a spoon for his egg.

"Kill 'em, Dad!" Duddley shouted from his typical spectator's stance; three fifths of the kitchen table.

Unfortunately for Vernon Dursley, that fateful leap for his nephew came a little too close to the pot of boiling water on the stove, which spilt out over the linoleum. Harry managed to—in a feat of unbelievable coordination that can only be attributed to his years of Quiddich—catch his poached egg in a ladle as it soared through the air. He munched contentedly as Dursley fumed from the other side of the boiling puddle.

"Boy, if you weren't leaving in a week, I'd wring your neck!"

The conciliatory finger emerged once more as Potter chewed, waving emphatically—most likely due to hot egg. Nevertheless, Harry mumbled around a copious amount of egg, "Fanks. Hi vill hallvays rehember hiss homent."

On that note, he returned to his room—skipping with convivial jovility and humming merrily—to read up on Tom Riddle's dirty little secrets. He giggled.

-

-

-

_How praiseworthy it is that a prince keeps his word and governs by candor instead of craft, everyone knows. Yet the experience of our own time shows us that those princes who had little reguard for their word and had the craftiness to turn men's minds have accomplished great things, and—in the end—have overcome those who governed their actions by their pledges. _

_You must recognize that there are two ways of fighting: by means of law, and by means of force. The first belongs properly to man, the second to animals; but since the first is often insufficient, it is necessary to resort to the second. Therefore, a prince must know how to use both what is proper to man and what is proper to beasts. _

_Since a prince is required to know how to assume a beastlike nature, he must adopt that of the fox and that of the lion; for a lion is defenseless against snares, and a fox is defenseless against wolves. Hence a prince ought to be a fox in recognizing snares and a lion in driving off wolves. Those who assume the bearing of the lion alone lack understanding. _

_But one must know how to mask this nature skillfully and be a great dissembler. Men are so simple and so much inclined to obey immediate needs that a deciever will never lack victims for his deceptions. _

_A prince will not actually need to have all the qualities previously mentioned, but he must surely seem to have them. Indeed, I would go so far as to say that having them all and always conforming to them would be harmful, while appearing to have them would be useful. _

_It is often necessary for a prince to act against mercy, against faith, against humanity, against frankness, against religion in order to preserve his state. Thus he must be disposed to change according to the winds of fortune and the alterations of circumstance dictate. He must stick to the good as long as he can, but—being compelled by necessity—he must be ready to take the way of evil. _

Harry read the page over again—the yellowed page that had been torn from a muggle book and tucked into Lord Voldemort's collection of spells.

The first part about the lion and the fox had been underlined, as had the last sentence. The printed page bore a heading of "Chapter XVIII." Harry was willing to bet his life that either a Death Eater or Voldemort himself had placed the page there. His gaze traveled down to the spell he had seen the night before.

_The Lion & The Fox _

_Abandon mercy, abandon faith, abandon humanity, abandon frankness, abandon orthodoxy—take the way of evil, or feign all of the above. _

_To become the Lion: _

Harry scanned further down the page. _No good_, he thought, _I already _am_ the lion, I need the fox!_ He turned the page.

_To become the Fox: _

_Becoming the fox is infinitely more difficult than becoming anything else, for the challenge is to make an ethical man forget his morals. These types of men are very unlikely to be turned by any means without resistance. Yet note; above all else, the righteous man who would offer up his moral soul is a force to be reckoned with, indeed. _

Harry was at once sobered and fortified by the words of the man he had vowed to kill. He wondered how a decent person choosing to become evil could possibly be "a force to be reckoned with." How could the idea give Voldemort such great pause? He read on to see what he would need.

"Draught of Chastity," he read aloud. "That's in Advanced Potion Making... what else?" Looking down the list, his eyebrows drew closer and closer together.

Strand of Werewolf hair_ (human form)_

Breath of a Veela

Memory of a Traitor, Fox-like

Dragon's blood _(mix 4:1 with Dementor's blood if possible) _

Spit of a Giant _(or blood) (use bohunk blood if Giant is unavailable) _

Hex of a Virgin

Sword _(older sword will be more potent) _

Relic of a Fox

Wand of a Lion _(preferably recently dead, better if killed, best if by a fox) _

Grave of a moral Fox _(preferably long-dead) _

Muggle-born Virgin, Lion-like

Harry's furrowed brows rivaled Victor Krum's. Dementor blood, Veela breath, and Giant spit? Virgins? Harry was beginning to seriously doubt Tom Riddle's sanity... well, more than ever before, that is... he read on skeptically.

_Use a capture phial for Veela's breath and Virgin's hex. Add memory and (use wand to add) three drops Dragon's blood to breath before adding hex. Add relic and let sit at least two sunsets. _

_Heat Draught of Chastity. Add Werewolf strand. Add Giant's spit until draught becomes green (change will be sudden). Coat wand liberally in Dragon's blood and stir; Draught will remain green (black if Dementor's blood is used) and become poisonous in large quantity. Allow Draught to cool before use. _

_Four or more hours after sunset on a night without a moon, bring phial, draught, sword, wand and Virgin to grave. (Previously and out of virgin's sight) Using wand, trace draught as per Horcrux preparations. _

Harry stopped reading, too shocked or frightened to go on.

Everything had seemed fine—a little eccentric, but fine—until... Horcrux. A Horcrux? Could he, Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, possibly wield the Dark Arts? This was... this _is_ Voldemort's personal spell—how could the Boy Who Lived employ something so sordid?

Harry gazed once more at the spell, Voldemort's reminders and minor alterations scribbled hastily in margins and otherwise empty spaces. _Am I ready to do this?... _

The Dursley's doorbell rang, unexpectedly drawing Harry from his reverie. He pushed his dark books into his school trunk, locked it, and made his way to the front door to investigate... and possibly to get his mind off of Tom Riddle and the Dark Arts, but only possibly.

-

"And who're you?" Uncle Vernon asked through a tiny crack in the front door, golf club held menacingly behind his back, his face splotchy.

"Vernon Dursley?" A comforting, familiar voice inquired from the doorstep. "You _are_ Mr. Vernon Dursley, Harry Potter's uncle?"

"State your business," Dursley muttered gruffly, adjusting his grip on the golf club as though one good swing might save him from anything and everything the wizard on his doorstep had against him.

"Mr. Dursley, I'd like to speak with your nephew if he's in."

"Well, he's not. Good d—" Dursley was slamming the door when Harry interrupted, bounding down the stairs in a rush.

"Mr. Lupin!" Harry shouted excitedly, "I'm here!"

Dursley muttered something menacing about Harry's neck as he yanked the door open and allowed Lupin in. He thundered off to join Dudley, slamming the kitchen door behind himself.

"Hi!" Harry shook Mr. Lupin's hand energetically, aware that he was wearing the same shirt and trousers as the night before, but not caring. "Come right in!" He gestured towards the Dursley's front room. Once they were seated, Harry asked the dreary Lupin, "So, what brings you here?" in a cheery voice.

"I have some news, Harry," Lupin said delicately, regarding Harry warily.

"Great!" Harry put his elbows on his knees and leaned forward with giddy eagerness.

"Harry?" Lupin seemed more worried than he had been a moment ago.

"Yes?"

"Exactly... how much did you have to drink last night?"

"Oh, no!" Harry said with convivial joviality, as though approaching the punchline of a great joke, "I'm just hungover!" And he smiled enchantingly. Three phrases chose that exact moment to flit through his semi-consciousness. Those three phrases were as follows: _giddiness_, _recklessness_, and _dangerous overconfidence_. They were totally and completely ignored.

"Are you sure someone didn't... put something in your drink?"

"Oh, no, no!" The dismissive hand waved again, transforming into the conciliatory finger from the earlier poached-egg-incident. "I was careful... I just have a hangover! Really!" Lupin smiled suddenly, almost wistfully.

"James was always funniest hungover..." Lupin's face dropped once he realized where he was, who he was, and exactly who he was speaking to. He blushed and cleared his throat. "Um... my news..."

"Yeah!" Harry leaned in again. "I'll take a guess: it's bad news, isn't it?" Harry appeared utterly unperturbed; unusual, considering the degrees of bad news with the potential to come his way.

"Yes," Lupin said soberly. "Last night... Bill had a relapse."

"What?"

"Near the end of the party last night—this morning—one minute he said he wasn't feeling well, and the next—he attacked Fleur." Harry was stunned.

"Is she alright?"

"She's at St. Mungo's right now, but she should be alright. Bill's not doing so well, though."

"But—has anyone figured out why?"

"No," Lupin sighed. "The Ministry is looking into it... but it's just too soon to know. Bill's case is so rare to begin with..."

"And the wedding?"

"Fleur postponed the wedding, at least until Bill's condition is stable, then... we don't know."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Oh, Harry," Lupin gave him a tight smile. "You may be able to pay him a visit in a few weeks, but there's really no point in going now. He's not conscious..."

"This is... awful." Harry, who had been on the edge of his seat, leaned back into Uncle Vernon's favorite armchair. "You're sure there's nothing I can..." he trailed off.

"Perhaps there is something..." Lupin said after a moment of silence.

"What is it?" Harry asked. "I'd do just about anything!"

"Nothing drastic, Harry," Lupin told him, thinking. "I suppose you don't know much about weddings in the wizarding community..." Harry shook his head rather than break Lupin's line of thought. "There is a tradition that comes and goes with the times, you see, much like muggle traditions. Wizards usually exchange rings, and the ceremony is overseen by a Ministry official."

"Like a muggle vicar?"

"Yes and no, Harry," Lupin paused, contriving a more thorough explanation. After a few breaths and false starts, he informed Harry that while the Ministry manages the "record" of a marriage, someone called the "protector" binds the marriage with an incantation and a spell of blessing. The "protector" is often a family member considered to be the wisest or most powerful wizard present at the ceremony.

"You may have noticed that Bill and Fleur had a bit of a row with Fleur's mother at the party last night," Lupin added after his explanation.

"Yeah, I did." He hadn't. He had most likely been at Kavall's. "Did it have something to do with the protector for the wedding?"

"It did," Lupin confirmed. "Apparently, Ms. Delacour had already requested that Mme. Maxime do the honors, while Fleur had set her heart on asking someone else. Ms. Delacour didn't approve of Fleur's choice. You can recall the rest, perhaps."

"Yeah," Harry said mildly, clueless. Then he had an idea. "Hey! Maybe I can convince Fleur's mother that the other person would be okay!" That would be great! Except, "Um... who's the other person?"

"You, Harry."

Lupin watched Harry's eyes bug out behind his spectacles, hiding his personal amusement at the expression of slack-jawed disbelief of Harry's face. As Harry mouthed wordlessly, Lupin gave over to a little chuckle.

"Plenty of people have done it, Harry," Lupin reassured Harry after nearly a minute of silent mouthing shock. "Minerva McGonagall was protector for Molly and Arthur Weasley, Flitwick has protected at least a dozen times... your father was going to protect for me if I ever got married," he added lightly. "_Traditionally_, it has been someone old or powerful, but since You Know Who... more and more people have been choosing their friends, people they love and trust."

"Was, um..." Harry lost his nerve and had to start over. "Was Sirius the protector for my Mum and Dad?"

Lupin lost himself in memory for a moment before responding.

"He offered to—as a second," Lupin recalled quietly, "but he stepped down to be your father's best man when Dumbledore volunteered..."

"Dumbledore?" Harry choked. "_He_ was their protector?" Lupin nodded. Harry was dumbfounded.

"Give it some thought, Harry," Lupin said while reaching to give Harry's shoulder a pat. "I'm sure it would mean a great deal to Bill and Fleur."

"I'll..." Harry forgot what he was about to say and decided it didn't really matter.

"Harry, I'd like to change topics for a moment, if you don't mind," Lupin shifted in his chair.

"Sure," Harry mumbled.

"What are you planning to do after next week?" Lupin appeared casual enough, but Harry seriously wondered what Lupin really wanted to get at.

"Um, I've got my Apparition Test scheduled for my birthday—Ron's got his, too. He invited me to the Burrow afterwards. I guess I'll go visit Bill then."

"Anything else?"

"Well... Ron, Hermione, and I were talking about heading up to Godrick's Hollow," Harry recalled. "I've always wanted to just... see the place, you know?" Lupin nodded.

"Then?"

"Back to Grimmauld Place, I suppose," Harry lied easily. "Maybe... apply to be an Auror..."

"Really? An Auror," Lupin nodded slowly.

"I think I'll stick with the Order, though," Harry added as an afterthought. "I'm not quite up to being the Ministry's new poster boy." Lupin chuckled appreciatively. "I'll stay in touch, don't worry."

Lupin stood up, signaling the end of his visit. Harry had mere seconds in which to make a decision.

"Mr. Lupin?"

"Yes?" he looked up from buttoning his muggle sport coat.

"I... was wondering," Harry looked away nervously, hoping Lupin would mistake his odd facial expression for suppressed emotion, "what happened to Sirius' wand."

"Oh," Lupin seemed taken aback, as though he had been expecting a completely different question, like _Where do babies come from? _Or something slightly more embarrassing, like _Did you ever want to snog my mother?_ He smiled warmly. "Actually, I have it. Would you like to have it?"

Harry nodded dumbly. "If it wouldn't, um, bother you?"

"Not at all, Harry," and Lupin placed his hands on Harry's shoulders, facing him squarely. "In fact, I think Sirius would have liked that very much."

Then Lupin did somethings unexpected: he wiped a tear from his eye before it fell, and he gave Harry a huge hug. Harry put his arms around Lupin awkwardly. Lupin gave Harry a squeeze: Harry realized his eyes had been closed and he opened them immediately. There, on Remus Lupin's shoulder was a short, grey-brown hair. Why not? The slippery slope had already begun, right? Right.

Lupin pulled away, offering Harry a hand, which he shook frankly.

"I'll owl it to you the first chance I get," he promised before releasing Harry's hand.

"Thanks," Harry said simply. Lupin smiled and disapparated. "Shit! Should have asked him what he knows about Horcruxes!" _Recklessness. Dangerous overconfidence. _

"About _what_, boy?"

"Nothing!" Harry scuttled up the stairs. _Perhaps not... _

_-_

_"_Dobby?"

_CRACK!_

"Harry Potter, sir!" The elf actually sprang forward and embraced his leg gaily.

"Er—something wrong, Dobby?"

"No, Harry Potter, sir!" Dobby squeaked, still clinging to Harry's shin like a sick parody of a toddler. "Dobby is so happy to be useful to Harry Potter!"

"Um, thanks? I think..." Harry dug Tom Riddle's book out of the trunk, asking, "Will the potion be alright if I call Kreacher and Winky?"

"Certainly, Harry Potter, sir! Dobby is watching it himself, as master asked, sir!"

"Oh, ace," Harry said in a monotone, distinctly reminded of a time when Dobby's looking after him has resulted in a severe bludgeoning, culminating in the de-boning and re-growing of his arm. He pulled his book out and riffed through it to find his spell. "Winky? Kreacher?"

_CRACK! _

"Yes, Mr. Potter, sir?"

"Hello, Winky," Harry gave her a nod as she curtsied. She had made a little dress from the curtains Harry and the Weasley's had de-doxied a while back. She actually looked clean, for the first time in a very long time. "I like your dress." She blushed up to her ears. "Where's Kreacher?"

"Kreacher is being a naughty elf, Mr. Potter," Winky informed Harry admonishingly.

"Kreacher is in his nest, Harry Potter, sir," Dobby said, "in the attic. Kreacher won't come out."

"Too bad," Harry admitted bluntly. "I need him. Kreacher!"

_CRACK! _

"Kreacher, do not move or speak unless commanded, got it?" Harry somehow knew Kreacher would terrorize every last object in the room if given the chance. He decided to save himself some trouble.

"Yes, master," Kreacher whined.

"Alright, everyone, I need supplies and information," Harry flopped down on his bed and anatomized his spell. "Raise your hand if you know anything about Horcruxes." Dobby put up a hand happily. Kreacher stared at Harry with an expression of pure loathing. "If you don't tell me exactly what I want to know," Harry threatened, "don't you doubt for a second that I won't make a cauldron of Veritaserum and dump every last drop down your miserable little throat." Kreacher sneered and raised an unbelievably dirty hand.

"Ace," Harry said dryly. "Winky, I want you to get back to Grimmauld Place and turn the place upside down until you find Dragon's blood, a Draught of Chastity, Giant's spit or blood, and Dementor's blood... if I have any of it, please bring it here." Winky nodded, seemingly overjoyed to be bossed around at long last. "Also, see if I have any books on symbols for spell casting—or anything at all about Horcruxes. Got all that?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Okay... and see if we have any Veritaserum," followed by a glance at Kreacher that made Harry's insides purr.

_CRACK!_

"Dobby. Everything you know about Horcruxes. Kreacher. Look at my owl again and I'll skin you alive with Godrick Gryffindor's sword." Kreacher's contemptuous gaze returned to Harry, who smiled seethingly.

Dobby told Harry some things he already knew: Horcruxes are made by killing someone and splitting the killer's soul in two: Horcruxes are linked to a relic or other object: Horcruxes are extremely difficult to make: Horcruxes are illegal under Ministry law ...

"Do you know how to make one? Or, um, have you ever seen one?"

"Sorry, Harry Potter, sir," Dobby squeaked, shaking his head.

"Is there anything else, Dobby? Anything at all?" Harry asked. Dobby continued to shake his head. "Okay. Kreacher?"

Kreacher took an agitated breath and was about to begin when Harry interjected a condition.

"Don't repeat any of what Dobby already said."

"Yes, master." Then there was silence.

"Kreacher," Harry said sweetly, concealing daggers, "have you ever seen the effects of a curse called 'Sectumsempra'?" Kreacher froze dead where he stood. "I suggest you start talking."

"Half-cruxes," Kreacher mumbled. "Separate the soul until a certain murder, then lose half the soul—sacrifice it to kill."

"Like the Lion and the Fox... right, Kreacher." Kreacher nodded and Harry's fears were confirmed in one giant title-wave. He would have to sacrifice half his soul to kill Voldemort. Okay, so that's where the slippery slope ends. Right.

"Did Voldemort put Wormtail under a Half-crux?" Harry asked suddenly, the kludge of his mind clicking awkwardly into place at last. "And Draco Malfoy, too," Harry realized. "Kreacher, what's the difference between someone who's forced into a Half-crux and someone who chooses it willingly?"

"Willing sacrifice is more powerful—less of the soul remains, but the other half cannot be stopped," Kreacher offered. He wasn't sneering or giving Harry murderous glares or gnashing his teeth or... anything, Harry found in shock. Kreacher was actually pleased to be chatting with his new master about destroying human souls with Voldemort's patented dark magic.

"Has anyone ever offered themselves willingly—that you know of?" Harry questioned, too deeply intriuged to bother with Kreacher's downright creepy behavior.

"The Dark Lord..." Kreacher replied smugly. "No other has been so bold."

"Let me guess: the murder's mine, right?" Kreacher displayed a rotten grin, fang-like and morbid. He nodded enthusiastically.

"Ace." Harry nodded too, playfully resigned to fate. "And Half-cruxes use relics as well, I take it?" Kreacher beamed, black gums glistening with spit and jagged teeth barred. Harry fell backward onto his bed with his hand over his eyes.

_CRACK! CLUNK! _

Winky had arrived with a whole bevy of crap in toe.

"Wha'ss-all-this?" Harry slurred, slack-jawed.

"Dragon's blood," Winky announced, lifting a jug the size of a bowling ball over her head so Harry could see more clearly. She nearly tipped herself over putting it down. "Dementor's blood in several forms," she gestured; bottles, cans and jars soared into the air, summersaulted, clanked against one another, and returned to their respective places. "Nothing from Giant, Mr. Potter, sir," she said, out of sight behind the lid of a small chest. "Books: spell casting symbols and Horcruxes," four dusty tomes flew out of the chest momentarily before zooming right back in. "No Draught of Chastity, but here are the ingredience—and a few empty phials and bottled!" The ingredience and the bottles danced above Winky's head. One large bottle of clear liquid danced above an iritable Kreacher's head. "Veritaserum!" Winky smiled, pointing over Kreacher's head.

"... Industrious..." Harry murmured, dumbstruck. "You wouldn't happen to have a capturing phial in there, would you?" Winky produced a small round bottle covered in engravings and stoppered with what appeared to be a piece of wood rather than a cork. "Ace," Harry said in grosse understatement.

"Anything else, sir?" Winky asked pleasantly.

"Um, my pensive?" Harry proposed tentatively, not sure how Winky would respond.

"Will you be traveling with it, sir?"

"Um... I—er..."

"Winky found a storage area disguised as a book, Mr. Potter," Winky explained. "It could make a traveling office, sir."

"—" Harry was confused. "How big is the space, exactly?"

"About twice this room, Mr. Potter, sir."

Harry swore very badly.

"The book is small, sir!" Winky offered despirately.

"Ah—er—um, no, Winky—it's fine... um," Harry felt his face go astonishingly hot. "Could you bring it... please?"

"Right away, Mr. Potter, sir!"

_CRACK!_

"Right." Harry reguarded Dobby and Kreacher. "Not a word of this repeated to anyone."

"Yes, Harry Potter, sir!"

"Yes, master."

"Kreacher, I have a proposition for you." Kreacher gave Harry a highly dubious look. "_IF_ you come out of the attic and help Winky and Dobby," Harry said slowly and clearly, carefully, "_then_ you may hurt Mundungus Fletcher as much as you please, _should _he show himself at Grimmauld Place. _Don't kill him, Kreacher_," Harry stipulated, and some of the elated glaze faded from Kreacher's eyes, but he still looked pleased. "Keep him around until I arrive. Do we have an agreement?"

"Yes, master!" Kreacher chortled merrily. "And may Kreacher add, master shows excellent taste." Kreacher gave a little bow. Harry was pleasantly surprised.

"Um—thanks?"

_CRACK!_

Winky came skipping towards Harry, bearing a very battered copy of _Hogwarts: A History_. She placed it on the bed next to him.

"So, how do I, uh, open it?"

"Page 723, Mr. Potter!" she squeaked. "Master must trace his wand down the crease," he did so, "tap the word 'Headmaster' three times and say his full given name." He did so.

"Harry James Potter."

_Hogwarts: A History_ opened from the spine outwards to reveal darkness. Harry stuck his wand hand tentatively down the hole and was sucked in, as thought through a pensive. He landed with a soft thud and looked around a room that was made entirely of grey stone, reminiscent of the stone that made up Hogwarts. Dumbledore's pensive sat on its pedestal in the far corner... oh, no... it was his pensive now. The room was otherwise bare, but he could surely move a few things into it before leaving Privet Drive.

"Winky?" he called. "This is all great, but how do I get out of here?"

Harry felt a stomach-wrenching snap and found himself sitting on his bed once more.

"Mr. Potter must only decide to leave," Winky said.

"Any other surprises with this thing?"

"It slows down time, Harry Potter!" Dobby added excitedly. " Time inside is slower than time outside!"

"You've seen one of these before, Dobby?"

"Yes, sir!"

"The Malfoys?"

"Yes!"

"Do you know the ratio?" Harry couldn't believe his luck.

"Five minutes inside, one minute outside," Dobby recalled.

Harry sat quietly for a few minutes, letting everything he'd just discovered wash over him.

"If Mr. Potter won't be needing anything else..."

"Oh—sure," Harry had forgotten about the three tiny creatures in front of him. "You can go if you like..."

_CRACK! CRACK!_

"Kreacher will be watching for Mundungus Fletcher!"

"Good luck... and give 'em hell—"

_CRACK!_

Harry stroked the cover of _Hogwarts: A History_. Maybe he should read it, after all this time...

Later. He had a Draught of Chastity to brew and a letter to write to the Weasley's.

-

-

-

Harry had all of his accumulated ingredients laid out on his work table by the fireplace. He was in his office. The stone walls were now almost completely covered in wooden shelves; shelves that were currently bare but would sooner or later hold so much more than _The Standard Books of Spells, Grades One through Six_ and their counterparts in Charms, Potions and the like.

One of the shelves near his working table bore potions ingredients. His brass scales and several fine silver knives had been pushed to one end of the long wooden table to make room for an assortment of things at which Harry was now staring at from across the room. He was seated at his handsome oak desk strewn with papers—his lists—and books. Two fine candelabrum shed light on his work from their posts at opposite corners of the desk, white candles burning low and dripping wax on embellished, silver family crests. The same crest was repeated on several small trunks on the floor behind his desk: the trunks were empty as well, but Harry intended them to hold money and disguises in the very near future. On the shelf behind his head was what must have once been a muggle tabernacle, gold and adorned with jewels and crucifixes. The doors of the box would open only at the touch of Sirius' wand. Harry used it to store his treasure from Kavall's shop. A little mattress covered in a dark tangle of blankets lay on the floor beside the large stone-work fireplace, in which Harry's Draught of Chastity was now brewing.

Harry pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders—while he loved his office, he hated how cold it always was despite a roaring fire. He stood up, and hand on the hilt of his sword to keep it from hitting the desk as he rose. The more time he spent with Gryffindor's sword at his hip, the less-inclined he became to take it off—he kept it by his pillow when he slept, right next to his pensive. He kept the pedestal in a corner by the Mirror of Erised.

He used his office for researching and for sleeping. He spent his nights in his office, accomplishing the work of several days in a single night he would have otherwise wasted on mere sleep... and he could always nap in the corner by the fire. And he did. Quite often.

But more importantly, he had learned worlds about talismans, illusions, spell forms, and evasion. He had become a formidable expert on disguises. He decided he would _have_ to learn Occlumency, if only to keep the Ministry from arresting him for just plain knowing too many dark and illegal curses; he felt more than a little sordid.

Pulling his cloak around his body, he picked up list and quill and headed for his work table, pausing to warm his fingers by the fire. He set the list down on the table and considered the items before him.

"Draught of Chastity, check," he crossed it off his list. "Warewolf hair, check," he used his quill to tap the tiny phial with Lupin's hair before crossing it too off his list. "Dragon and Dementor's blood... check and check."

"Relic of a Fox, check," Harry glanced at Salazar Slytherin's ring. "Sword, check," he crossed it off, muttering, "that illusion from _Darkest Room_ should cover it well enough." He regarded the list. "Wand, check," placing a hand on Sirius' wand—tucked neatly inside his sword's sheath in a little space designed to hold a wand of about that size. "What's left?" He picked up his list and paced the room—a well-worn track after nearly a week's use.

"Giant, Veela, Memory, Grave, Virgins," he began his regular mantra. "Giant, Veela, Mem—"

_CLICK! CLICK-CLICK! C-L-U-N-K!_

Hedwig was back from the Burrow and pecking on _Hogwarts: A History_ with a vengeance. Harry had learned from her that the book would close when he was down in his office. She learned very quickly where he was, and discovered even more quickly that pecking on the cover of _Hogwarts: A History_ created _the_ most god-awful racket down in her owner's office. Harry had to hand it to her—she was determined. Harry snatched a letter for Fred and George from his desk and went up to meet Hedwig.

-

_Dear Harry, _

_Arthur and I were so touched to receive your letter! Fleur is out of St. Mungo's and is staying with us for the time being, and Bill is looking better every day. The Medi-Wizards still aren't sure about anything, but we're all very hopeful just the same. _

_Yes, the wedding has been postponed for now, but some of the guests have started showing up already! Just the other morning I was out in the garden and who should apparate behind me but Hermione and Victor Krum! They'll be staying here for ... I don't know how long, actually. With Hermione's parents arriving this evening and Fleur's extended family, and Bill's colleges from Egypt as well, the Burrow's going to be rather full! _

_We're all very eager to see you, Harry. Charlie will come around with Hermione and Ron to pick up your things on Friday. Best of luck on your Apparition Test, by the way! I'm sure you'll do just fine. _

_Love, _

_Molly_

Harry squinted at the signature for a moment; it appeared that Mrs. Weasley had first written _Mum_, then used _Molly_ to cover it over. He smiled.

"Mind going to Diagon Alley, Hedwig?"

She responded with a mild glance of indignation, beak buried in her food dish.

"Please?"

_Whoooo... _

"I'll be at the Burrow, so you won't have to go so far... please?"

Hedwig munched several more owl treats cholericly. After having her fill and then pausing to prolong her master's sufferings, she consented with a bow of her head.

"Thanks a million," Harry said, smoothing the feathers on her back and tying the parchment to her leg. "This one's for Fred and George, alright?" She _whoo_-ed again. "See you soon."

After watching Hedwig disappear into the early sunrise, Harry shuffled back to his office with Mrs. Weasley's letter and a change of clothes. He intended to spend several more hours in full-fledged academic review—Hermione would be proud—then catch a bit of sleep by the fire. Yet once in his office, he glanced again at Mrs. Weasley's letter... and something in his sleepy, paranoid brain went _click_.

_Krum ... he's Bulgarian! _

_And Fleur's grandmother is a Veela! _

"YES!" He shouted; his voice reverberated around his lair, echoing distortion rattling jars on the shelves. He ran to his list and checked off "Veela's breath" and "Giant's spit" with fervor. He scanned the list excitedly, "Hex of a Virgin, Grave, and a Muggle-born Virgin." He had decided to use his memories of Snape as those of the traitor; Snape was certainly "fox-like" enough. _Abandon mercy, abandon faith, abandon, humanity_... that sounded like Snape, alright.

Harry paced his usual route.

"Grave of a Moral Fox..." He pondered aloud. "Hex of a Virgin... Muggle-born Virgin... Lion-like," he paced. "Grave... Hex... Hex... who do I know with a great hex?" he pondered. "Hermione's good, Ron's awful..." Harry sighed. "Ginny." Her Bat Boggey Hex had impressed even the likes of Slughorn! He'd have to use her. "Won't be that hard to get her to hex me, though," he realized pointedly, "she already hates me." He doggedly crossed "Hex of a Virgin" off the list, disallowing himself to question Ginny's virginity; he couldn't bear the thought.

"Muggle-born Virgin... Grave of a Moral Fox..."

More Pacing.

And pacing.

And frustrated ruffling of hair.

And pacing...

Harry tripped over his own foot. _That's it!_ he thought, and made his way to his mattress. He was of no use to himself when half asleep.

_The best place to hide is in the open... _was it something Voldemort had said? Or Sirius? Or Snape? Or Dumbledore? He couldn't remember... in any case, what he needed was probably hiding right in the open, too... Right.


	4. Fourth Chapter

**TITLE: "THE GUNMAN"**

**AUTHOR: **sordid humor

**CATEGORY: **Adventure

**SUB-CATEGORY: **Humor; Romance; Drama

**RATING:** PG-13/whatever combination of letters is using these days...

**DISCLAIMER: **

I do not own them in a box,

I do not own them with a fox,

I do not own them while I'm bowling,

They all belong to J.K. Rowling.

(Realistically, no copyright infringement intended, sorry-sorry, et cetera, et cetera. You know the drill.)

-

-Title gleaned from E.M. Forster's _A Room With A View_ (1908) with much love, respect and admiration.

-lyrics from _I'm Not Okay (I Promise)_, My Chemical Romance

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

count: 5000 running count: 22,000

... coined in 1620 and from the french "fenetre," meaning "window"...

I believe it would be pertinent to the public to explain my current situational stipulations: If I write this fic relatively well, subjecting myself to an evolving set of conditions, I will be rewarded with a publicly undisclosed sum of money. Yes, I love writing, but I normally don't have the time. This convinces me to make the time; plus, my mazokus get to drag me around like their own personal dancing monkey. I have stipulations like "there must be telepathy," "Harry must lose his virginity," and more recently "You must make reference to _Vampire Hunter D Bloodlust_ at least once before chapter 7 and several times during and after chapter 10." Kyle, Jeba is coming; just keep your pants on 'til what I think will be chapter 20. This is my plight. If you'd like a complete list of the guidelines for payment (or if you'd like to donate towards my winnings), let me know. I'll send you the list. You'll get a kick out of it. rolls eyes Thanks for taking the time. Seriously. I hope you like it.

(( for Jules: thanks for the hero-worship and enjoy the nose oysters ))

**PART I**

**CHAPTER IV: **

**FOURTH CHAPTER**

_Well if you wanted honesty that's all you had to say _

_I never want to let you down or have you go _

_It's better off this way _

_For all the dirty looks, the photographs your boyfriend took _

_Remember when you broke your foot from jumping out the second floor _

_What will it take to show you that it's not the life it seems _

_I've told you time and time again_

_You sing the words but don't know what it means _

_To be a joke and look, another line without a hook _

_I held you close as we both shook _

_For the last time, take a good hard look _

_I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay now, I'm okay now _

_I'm telling you the truth, I'm in this, I'm okay_—_TRUST ME _

_I'm not okay, I'm not okay, I'm not okay_

"Woah, Harry! This trunk's awful light!" Charlie remarked, lifting Harry's trunk easily with the muscle of one arm. "Sure you've got everything?"

"Er—yeah," Harry said, thinking fast. "I sent some things to Grimmauld Place..." and he trailed off, hoping the partial lie would be sufficient.

"Oh! Right, then," Charlie smiled a bit and nodded. Ron was looking about the room distractedly and hadn't heard a word. Hermione appeared as though she were straining to find something wrong with Harry's story: she thought and thought yet vocalized nothing. Somehow Hermione could always tell when he was lying. Harry went to pick up his bag, hoping to avoid her hot glare by turning his back...

Nope. He could still feel it.

He picked up his green messenger's bag and slung the wide strap across his chest. He had walked to the store the day before and bought the bag himself. It had been cheap, but large enough to hold _Hogwarts: A History_, a jacket, and precious little else. He adjusted the strap to fit more comfortably on his shoulder and turned back to face Hermione.

"Wha'?" he asked. She was glaring at him with squinty eyes.

"Nothing..." She looked away almost too hastily, feigning innocence that Ron and Charlie failed to notice, but Harry knew better. He had learned to read her over the years: she thought she was onto something and she wasn't about to let it go. He was going to have to be far more careful around Hermione from now on.

"Best of luck to you, Harry," Charlie said cheerfully, offering Harry a calloused hand. He shook it gladly.

"Thanks. Will you be at the Burrow tonight?"

"Of course."

"Then I'll see you when I get back!" Harry released Charlie's hand and stepped back to give the man room to apparate. Once he had gone, Harry turned to Hermione and Ron and asked, "How are we getting there, exactly?"

"Didn't you get my owl?" Hermione forgot about being suspicious in order to look genuinely worried.

"Told you," Ron grinned. Then, triumphantly, "Should've used Pig."

"Ron," Hermione admonished, "just because Errol is old—"

"And don't forget senile!"

"—doesn't mean he's incapable. Age is no reason to question his worth! He's a perfectly able bodied—"

"Please," Ron interrupted loudly, "no S.P.O.O.O.O.!"

"I don't know what you're—"

"Society for the Protection of... Old Overweight Ornery Owls," Ron spluttered his way to a finishing. Harry laughed appreciatively. Hermione fumed.

"Sorry, Hermione," Harry said. "How're we getting out of here?"

_HONK!_

A horn blew from outside number four, Privet Drive.

"I called a taxi to take us as far as King's Cross. From there we can take the Underground," Hermione clarified.

"Ace. Let's go, then."

-

Harry cleared his throat.

"Oh, you're leaving?" Uncle Vernon said in a would-be casual voice, barely containing his internal glee as he folded his newspaper down halfway in order to peer at Harry from behind it. Harry could see his balding head and beady eyes and nothing else.

"Yeah," Harry responded, strolling from the doorway across the linoleum to the kitchen table where the Dursley family sat. He stopped a good three feet from Uncle Vernon's chair. "I won't be in touch, don't worry," he added shortly, seeing beady bulging eyes relax to a more beady positioning. "I just wanted to say—" Harry took a deep, calming breath before plainly saying, "should anything happen to me—I want to be buried with my parents."

In the silence that inevitably follows such statements, Harry held out a hand to his Uncle Vernon.

Bulging eyes flicked back and forth, from hand to face to hand again, yet no further action was taken. Harry's hand remained stoically extended for some decent period of time before the newspaper once more covered beady eyes.

"Goodbye," Harry said simply, then turned and left number four Privet Drive without another glance behind.

-

-

-

Ron was wringing his hands. His face was white as chalk. He couldn't stand still. The examiner knew that her instructions were trickling in one ear and out the other. Nevertheless, she went through her protocol. First, Ron was to apparate into a hoop at the other end of the muggle warehouse in which they all stood. Then he was to apparate to Hogsmead, right outside Madame Pudifoot's tea shop. Ron nodded nervously, not taking in a word.

There were about three dozen young witches and wizards waiting in line, all in varying states of nervousness. Parents stood off to the side, chatting and waiting. Harry, at the very front of the line, could hear little snippets of conversation: several fathers planned on taking their sons to a Quiddich match after the test, and the sons were avidly discussing the strengths and weaknesses of the teams; two witches gossiped about a recent interview in _Witch Weekly_; several girls at the back of the line were whispering... about him.

"That _is _Harry Potter!" One girl hit another for not taking her word.

"You're sure?"

"Yes!"

"He's even better looking in person..."

"And taller, too!"

"Harry?" Hermione regarded him closely. "Are you alright? You're grinding your teeth..." She put a hand on his shoulder as Ron finally apparated into the hoop. "Nervous?"

"No, I'm fine," Harry lied.

"Who's she?" the girls at the back of the cue continued, not bothering to whisper.

"Think she's his girlfriend?"

"I hope not!"

"Harry Potter! You're next!" Ron had apparated off to Madame Pudifoot's at long last, and it was Harry's turn.

"I'll meet you and Ron at the Three Broomsticks. Remember, Harry: destination, determination, deliberation!" Hermione called after him as he approached the examiner.

"Just don't lose your shirt," he mumbled to himself, mortified by the very thought of the squeals that would arise from the back of the line should his clothing begin to come off. "Destination, determination, deliberation... "

"You're Harry Potter?" the examiner asked.

"Yeah."

"Alright. First I'll have you apparate into that hoop over there," she pointed and Harry nodded to demonstrate that he knew where the hoop was. "I'll check for accuracy and any splinching, then you'll apparate from there to Madame Pudifoot's in Hogsmead—you know where that is?" Harry nodded again. "Good. Whenever you're ready, then," and she stepped back.

_Destination, determination, deliberation,_ he thought. He concentrated on the hoop at the other end of the warehouse. He had to do this. He had no other choice. He could get on with the rest of his life once...

He reappeared in the circle.

"Very good," the examiner said briskly, apparating beside him. She made several check marks on her sheet of official parchment. Harry slipped his hand inside his bag, sighing softly when his fingertips met _Hogwarts: A History_. "Whenever you're ready..." the examiner offered again. Before she could step away, Harry turned to her.

"Er, my friend, Ron Weasley—did he pass?" Harry asked awkwardly.

"Yes, he did," she told him, stepping back. "Relax and concentrate—whenever you're ready..."

_Destination, determination... _Harry relaxed as much as he could... _deliberation, destination... _He turned and was greeted by a pinched, nauseating sensation. He tried to relax. _Determination, destination, deliberation... desolation, degradation, denigration, defenestration! _

He landed hard outside Madame Pudifoot's tea shop.

"Solid, mate!" Ron called, breaking through a casual rank of Ministry officials and dashing across the street to meet Harry. They engaged in a brief manly hug, separating as the examiner arrived.

"Excellent, Potter," she said. "Just a moment." She made a few more marks on her parchment before handing it to a tiny official who had scuttled up behind her almost unnoticed. She disapparated.

"This way, please," and the tiny man guided Harry down the street.

"Ron?" Harry asked quietly as they followed the official.

"Yeah?"

"Uh, is 'defenestration' a word?"

"No bloody idea. Is Hermione coming?"

"Yeah. She said she'd wait at the Three Broomsticks."

"_Excellent!_" Ron was suddenly very enthusiastic.

"Wha'?"

"Oh, you'll see!"

-

"Two Fire Whiskeys!"

"_RON!!!_"

Ron had marched Harry into the Three Broomsticks before the ink on their licenses had time to dry. They had seen Hermione at the bar, nursing a Butterbeer and chatting with Madam Rosmerta. Ron had sat down and placed his order in a highly convivial manner. Hermione had been extremely affronted. Harry had just blushed.

"What's the occasion, boys?" Mme. Rosmerta smiled warmly, picking up two glasses for their drinks.

"It's Harry's birthday!" Ron shoved Harry into the seat between himself and a murderous-looking Hermione.

"Oh, that's right!" Mme. Rosmerta said, pouring them each a liberal amount. "On the house," she placed their drinks on the bar, "and happy birthday, Harry."

"Thanks," he blushed more—partly from the principle of a free drink and partly from the venomous expression Hermione now wore.

"_Ron_," Hermione began imperiously, "I hardly think your—"

"We're of age. Cheers, mate!" Ron clanked his glass against Harry's, and they both downed the amber liquid.

Ron coughed and spluttered uncontrollably.

"Serves you right," Hermione responded primly.

Harry exhaled slowly, savoring a sweet burn at the back of his throat followed by the tiniest of shudders. "Wow," he breathed, running out of air with a soft, strangled sound.

"Glad you like it," Mme. Rosmerta said, clearing away the glasses as Ron gasped for air. Harry clapped him on the back as he wheezed himself back under control.

"We should head back," Hermione said over Ron's shuddering inhalations. "It's nearly time for lunch and everyone will be waiting for us." She stood up.

"Go ahead," Ron said in a detached voice, "don't keep Krum waiting."

Hermione huffed and slammed the door behind her as she left. The unassuming early-afternoon stragglers who sparsely populated the Three Broomsticks turned to cast eyes on Ron as Hermione's _slam_ echoed around the room.

"Should we go?" Harry asked once their audience had gone back to its own business.

"Eh," Ron said dismissively. "I'm gunna have another fire whiskey first. You?" Mme. Rosmerta came back around the bar.

"Maybe... a small mead?" Harry dug around the bottom of his bag and pulled out a few coins, dropping them on the bar discretely. "My treat."

-

-

-

After sandwiches at the Burrow, Krum took Hermione out for a date. Ron wouldn't stop talking about the vulgarity of it all, during which time Mrs. Weasley detected the distinct aroma of fire whiskey on her son's breath—she sent him, grumbling, to his room. Harry stood up, about to go and join him when Fred and George arrived.

George took over greeting Mrs. Weasley and accepting sandwiches while Fred approached Harry, carrying a large sized box under each arm.

"Mind giving me a hand, Harry? These go upstairs," Fred asked nonchalantly, though loud enough for two or three other people at the table to hear.

"Sure, no problem." Harry grabbed a box and followed Fred upstairs. "I'm in Percy's old room, with Krum," Harry told Fred under his breath when they paused on a landing.

"Right. That might make things difficult."

Once in the immaculately kept former bedroom of Percy Weasley, Fred set his box on the floor and turned to Harry.

"What's all this for, Harry?" he asked, gesturing toward the boxes vaguely.

"Best not to know," Harry said peevishly, folding his arms and gazing out the window, casting _Muffliato_ covertly so that Fred wouldn't pick up on the spell.

"If you're in some kinda trouble—" Fred took an aggressive step forward, as if trouble was the sort of thing he was used to handling head-on.

"I'm not." Harry turned to reassure him with a shrug.

"Really?" Fred stared him down. Harry returned his gaze to the window.

"Not yet, anyway."

George burst in.

"I thought I'd never escape Mum and her sandwiches!" he panted. "What'd I miss?"

"Nothing much," Fred said. "We were just getting to the good part—an explanation for all this." Fred opened one of the boxes and pulled out Mister D's ridiculous hat—even more foolish and impractical in broad daylight—even in the wizarding world.

"What the hell, Harry? What the hell?" George droned sarcastically in a very even monotone. "Explain right now."

"I..." Harry sighed. "I can't. It... might put you in danger later on..."

"We brought everything you asked for," Fred added, sounding more than a little down. "Can't you at least tell us something?"

"You'd better sit down," Harry said evenly. Once Fred and George were seated on his bed, he sat on a box and began. "So... I'm going after Voldemort. I went to Knockturn Alley to try and get some information, but I got a lot more than I thought I would. Aside from those books—which are really valuable—I... ran into someone."

"Who?"

"Doesn't matter. What's important is how she reacted to me... like she mistook me for somebody else—someone she's really afraid of. She just about died when I mentioned—er, how was it?... 'Those of my acquaintance,' or something like that. I think I might be able to fool her again, and maybe get some more information out of her," Harry finished in a rush.

"And if you can't trick her?"

"Then I'll go straight to the guy she thought I was."

"And who's he?"

"I... I'm not sure yet. I'll figure it out, though."

"So when you find this guy, you'll... what?"

"Pay him to help me—the guy, he's a bounty hunter, or at least he used to be—I bet he'd do it."

"Harry, I don't get it," George interrupted. "Why this guy you don't even know? You can't trust bounty hunters, anyway; they'll turn on you in a second for the right price!"

"I know," Harry responded quickly, running a hand through his hair. "But I think this guy might have some kind of... personal vendetta... anyway, I've got another reason for all this stuff: Ron and Hermione."

"What about them?"

"I don't know if they've told you, but they're threatening to come with me."

"Well they can't."

"Exactly! They think I'm looking for Voldemort in a library or something, but that's not how all this works! Besides; if they know where I am or what I'm after, they'd be in real danger."

"We'll keep them here when you leave, Harry," Fred promised soberly.

"No good," Harry shook his head. "I've got to give them the slip myself. If I don't, they'll always be coming after me. I can't deal with that many people tailing me at one time and still get to Voldemort. I've got to work alone, or with absolute strangers."

"Do you have a plan?" George was still flinching at the mention of The-Name.

"Yeah, a bit. I think I can make a clean break from Ron and Hermione. Then I've got a couple decent disguises, so I'll gather some more information... but I'll make contact once I've got outside support."

"How will you contact us? So we know it's you."

"Chances are I'll send an actual person—no idea who it'll be, though."

"We need some kind of phrase..."

"What do you mean, Fred?"

"Something this contact can say to us so we'll know they've come from you."

"Um... I'll have them mention a thousand galleons. How's that?"

"That's good."

"When do you think you'll send them?"

"Like I said, I dunno yet. Once I ditch Hermione and Ron. Once I'm disguised and hidden. Once I've got someone to send..."

"So you're really going after him..."

"Yeah. I'm gunna get 'em..."

-

-

-

Harry donned his dress robes with a distinct note of apprehension. Mrs. Weasley had insisted that everyone "dress up" for dinner tonight, and Harry had been the only one to put up any kind of protest. He distinctly detected the odor of conspiracy. "You don't turn seventeen every day, you know!" Mrs. Weasley had proclaimed, and thus it was final. Harry just hoped nobody would make a big deal out of his birthday... he honestly wouldn't know how to take it...

Mounting the stairs, music and the gentle hum of multiple conversations drifted up to him. Ron apparated right beside him, straightening the collar of his navy blue dress robes—the cocky, I-just-apparated-like-it's-nothing smirk on his face told the whole story.

"C'amon, mate," he said in chipper tones, clapping a hand on Harry's shoulder and steering him the rest of the way down the stairs.

"Harry!" Mr. Weasley greeted him from the main room. "Happy birthday," he said, handing Harry... surprise... a glass of honeyed mead.

"Thanks," Harry said, taking the glass with a small pang of guilt. He wondered if he'd been drinking too much lately ... can never drink too much with untold numbers of extremist factions trying to murder you every moment of every day ... he took a sip.

Mr. Weasley excused himself and went to help his wife in the kitchen.

"Where's everybody else?" Harry asked Ron, who continued to fuss with his robes.

"Dunno," he said. "Hey! I'll go check outside!" and he disappeared excitedly, leaving little more than a dusting of red hairs behind. Harry chuckled appreciatively and sipped his mead agreeably. Then he saw Ginny standing by the radio. He froze.

Her hair was pulled back from her face, little strands falling down her neck—his eyes explored the lines of her, the planes of her body in a long blue dress like a vision seen only in dreams from which the mind must too-soon wake. He watched her, praying she hadn't noticed him, knowing she already had, but praying all the same that she would have the grace to pretend with him; pretend she hadn't noticed him, and allow him to glory in her looks a moment longer. She had such a power over him, standing calmly in her long blue dress, toying with the window frame and toying with his heartstrings, tearing them this way and that as though they should break and leave him lifeless, heartless in a body held heavy and solid at the foot of the stairs.

She would do well to ignore him. He wished she would; to hear her voice... to look into her eyes... to know she was watching him... would all be too much. He might lose what parts of his heart that still remained. Without a single acknowledgement, she held the power to command him. Looking at her—he was lost to the world.

She lifted her eyes to the door that lead out to the garden. Raising her skirt above her ankles, she moved to the door, dragging his battered, bleeding gaze behind her. She abandoned him with her beautiful green eyes held high. He had no control of himself. From the garden she willed him to follow, and he did without thought or hesitation.

-

_"SURPRISE!!!" _

-

-

-

Books and alcohol rivaled one another for attention amongst the multicolored contents of the pile, yet the large bags of money were also very appealing. Some gifts stuck out like sore thumbs, such as the unpronounceable plant from Professor Sprout; the bow and arrows from Firenze; or the stolen goods from a battered looking Mundungus Fletcher, returned in an equally pilfered, Black-family-crested suitcase. Other gifts made more sense, like a charmed rope from Professor Flitwick, or a very advanced potions set complete with books and cauldron from Slughorn. McGonagall had gotten him a brick-of-a-book called _An Introduction to Legilimency_... it looked scary. Nearly Headless Nick had presented Harry with a large box of cigars. Trelawney gave him muggle tarot cards, insisting they were the best divining tool she'd ever come across. Moaning Myrtle didn't show up and Harry didn't need tarot cards to divine why.

Mad Eye Moody pressed a very spartan looking set of daggers into Harry's hands, accompanied by a heavy book on hand to hand combat and a brusque wink. Hermione hadn't approved, but had handed Harry a book on the international history of Aurors. Tonks and Lupin gave him the Ministry's official textbooks for year one of Auror training.

Madam Rosmerta brought Harry some of her best spirits: Angelina Johnson, Fred, George, and Bill's colleagues from Egypt brought more of the same. Fred and George made a show of giving Harry a slew of brand new product not yet available to the public: there was much Mrs. Weasley eye rolling. Kingslee Shackelbolt joined other members of the Order—as well as some of Mr. Weasley's friends—in giving Harry money. Both Oliver Wood and Victor Krum donated Quiddich tickets in subdued fits of self-promotion. After giving Harry a handsome set of dragon skin accessories, Charlie got in a fight with Wood over who was a better Quiddich player in his Hogwarts days. The fight culminated in a drinking match, in which Harry and Krum partook and won... hands down. Wood was too plastered to get the bottle to his lips by the third round.

Seamus Finnegan brought Harry a book his great grandfather had written on Celtic spell work. Ernie MacMillan and his entire family showed up, bringing Harry a book about practical transfiguration. The Bones family presented Harry with a lovely collection on spellforms. Ron gave him what appeared to be a copy of _Men Who Loved Dragons Too Much_, but the book was actually hollowed out to hold a large flask of whiskey.

Fleur gave Harry a small, silvery chain that she immediately fastened around his neck. She said it was made of Veela hair and would protect him... but she didn't say how, or against what. Harry hoped beyond hope it would protect him from women—he figured it wouldn't, but it never hurt to dream.

Luna Lovegood turned up with her father, whom she looked remarkably like. Wearing her traditional bottle cap necklace and glassy-eyed vacant expression, she placed in Harry's hands a map of London, with an inset of the Underground in the bottom corner. Harry bemusedly thanked her for the map, subconsciously aware that the map was most likely more than Luna Lovegood let on. Ron made fun of the map when Luna was out of earshot and Harry tried to laugh appreciatively, but couldn't laugh upon looking at the insert a second time. It had become a map of Godrick's Hollow... Luna was really far more perceptive than she let on...

By now, he was sipping from a small bottle of potent citrus liquor and leafing through the collection of books on spellforms. All but a few of the guests from his surprise birthday party remained—mostly older, serious people theorizing over what The-Boy-Who-Lived coming of age would mean in the fight against the Dark Lord... dark, heavy matters that weighed greatly at the back of Harry's mind. He turned pages and took sips of of his alcohol, searching for something to bring him closer to the thousand answers the world so desperately sought.

He stopped turning pages, licking a drop of potent sour from his lip. He scanned an immense diagram, noting minor aspects that could prove useful. _This,_ he thought, _combine it with that one there, put a circle around them, maybe add a double line on the left and some weighting on the bottom _he mused, and turned over a corner of the page—but too quickly, giving himself a long paper cut. Immediately, he brought the finger to his mouth.

And let out a low, exasperated moan when the cut burned against his chilled lips. He removed the finger and shook it wildly, swearing violently under his breath.

"Harry? Is that you?" Hermione had come into the room, most likely while he'd been drinking and reading.

"Mmm," he grunted back, standing up from behind his horde. "Yeah. Cut my finger—"

"Serves you right. You shouldn't play with knives while intoxicated," she quipped, still sore about the daggers from Moody.

"I was reading!" He rolled his eyes and held up his finger. "See? Paper cut."

Hermione sighed and shook her head.

"And I'm not drunk." Harry disappeared behind his pile of stuff.

Her ire rose in indignation.

"I just had to put Ron to bed—he's absolutely plastered! Now you've had even more than he has, and _don't you roll your eyes at me, Harry!_ Do you even know how many drinks you've had today?" she demanded in a huff, hair everywhere and hands placed aggressively on her hips.

Harry reappeared from behind his horde with a bottle to his lips.

"Relax, Hermione," he said softly, screwing the cap on his liquor and slipping the bottle in the pocket of his robes.

"What a lush..." she muttered and turned her back to him.

Though he thought she was being slightly unreasonable, he did feel a little guilty, now he had done the belated mental math and realized just how much he had actually drank in one day. He came around the side of the pile and took a few steps in her direction: he saw her stiffen and stopped.

"Um, thank you for the Auror book," he pronounced awkwardly, not sure what else to say when she was obviously so angry with him. "It really does look interesting... I'll go to sleep, then." He couldn't take it when she wouldn't say what was on her mind—so unlike Ginny, but so equally frightening. He couldn't begin to imagine what might be going on in a woman's mind. Was she about to cry? Or about to hex him? "Goodnight, Hermione. See you in the morning." He scooped up his things with a spell and meandered up the stairs, presents floating up the staircase behind him, a hundred little reminders of the womanthoughts he remained unprivy to.

-

Victor Krum covered his eyes against the light as Harry opened the door. Krum's covers were thrown back to reveal a well muscled torso and strong arms and light colored boxer shorts. Krum looked piss drunk.

"She got you, too, eh?" Krum asked. His English had improved, but his accent was thicker than usual for obvious reasons.

"Hermione? Yeah..." Harry closed the door, directing his things to collect in man-high piles against the wall by his trunk. "She forced you up here, too?" he relaxed a little as Krum nodded.

"She, eh, undressed me," Krum laughed, indicating his current state.

"I-don't-wanna-know," Harry said quickly, slurring, becoming uncomfortably aware that Krum was in fact Hermione's long-standing boyfriend. Krum laughed even harder. Harry tossed his bottle onto the bed, its liquid filling the room with pleasant sloshing sounds as he tugged off his dress robes and Krum's chuckle tapered off into nothing. Harry abandoned his shirt and trousers in a pile on the floor and dug through his trunk for a pair of pyjama bottoms, being careful to leave a capture phial readily accessible. He coaxed his legs into the pyjama bottoms and then collapsed into bed with his bottle.

"She worries for us," Krum mused. "That must be good. She cares." Harry unscrewed his bottle.

"Does she ever get real quiet when she's mad at you?" He took a sip.

"Sometimes, yes..." Krum rolled over to look at Harry. "No fun. She do that to you?" Harry just nodded.

"It scares me," Harry admitted.

"Me, too."

Harry offered Krum a sip, which he accepted—stretching a long Seeker's arm across the space between their beds. His eyes went large as he sipped and passed the bottle back with an odd smile that made his birdlike features turn suddenly handsome, sinister.

"Vodka... that's very good," he slurred. Harry smiled in return and took another swig. Krum chuckled suddenly, bitter.

"Wha'?"

"Her."

"Hermione?"

"She put us in bed like babies!" Krum signaled for another round.

"Children," Harry muttered, forking over the vodka.

"Our lives are—how do you say—rained on by women?"

"Rained on? Maybe... ruled?" Harry suggested.

"Yes!" Krum agreed. He decided to say it once again, properly, and for emphasis. "Our lives are ruled by women!"

Krum took a savage mouthful and Harry did the same.

"Cheers, mate."

-

-

-

One foot unto the next, stealthily, he crept up to the door. He secured his invisibility cloak, his wand, his capture phial. Everything was in place. Harry could hear the snores of Fleur's grandmother from the landing—she had enjoyed the wine at the party, Harry had noted while forcing himself to become more observant of the goings-on at parties. It would be safest to get the Veela's breath tonight, while she was sleeping hard and the danger was minimal. Harry recalled the scene at the Quiddich World Cup vividly. He wouldn't like to see Fleur's grandmother angry _and _drunk...

Harry opened the door silently, using a spell from _The Darkest Room_ to muffle the squeaking of the door. He aimed the same spell at the floorboards, just to remain secure and thorough.

The old woman was out—more so than Krum.

Quickly, silently, Harry balanced the capture phial in the palm of his hand, wand squeezed over the lip of the phial to prevent it from falling, as suggested by one of the Auror training textbooks Lupin and Tonks had given him. Holding the phial to his chest, he pulled out the wooden stopper in a smooth motion and extended his arm to the old woman's mouth with urgency.

"Captivus," he whispered.

_Whisss_ the phial seemed to respond, and the air around it managed to contract for an aching instant. Then it was done, and the grandmother gave a snort in her sleep. Harry stoppered the phial and backed out of the room, not believing his luck.


	5. Manhood & Evil

**TITLE: "THE GUNMAN"**

**AUTHOR: **sordid humor

**CATEGORY: **Adventure

**SUB-CATEGORY: **Humor; Romance; Drama

**RATING:** this episode brought to you by the letter M: "M" is for mother fucker...

I can say that now because I bumped up the rating. I can say whatever the fuck I want now! My Grandmother enjoys drowning kittens in rain barrels... okay, maybe I can't say whatever the fuck I want to. But she does; go ahead and ask her!

This ratings rant dedicated to Josie with love, because she actually reads them. Hearts!

**DISCLAIMER: **

"I do not own them in a box,

I do not own them with a fox,

I do not own them while I'm bowling,

They all belong to J.K. Rowling."

(Realistically, no copyright infringement intended, sorry-sorry, et cetera, et cetera. You know the drill.)

- Radiohead, original lyrics to _Paranoid Android_ (back when the track was titled _Subterranean Homesick Alien_)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **

count: 4700 running count: 26,700

Got another demand the other day. The mazokus request "an underground death cult: a cult, underground, having something to do with death." _Interficiemus. _Next, it'll be a shrubbery. Also, the requirement of "Walt Whitman allusion" has been retracted—though I do love my first American gay poet, this retraction is a good thing... as I had no idea how I was going to successfully maintain the allusion. I've got my hands full with Macbeth, Don Quixote, Faulkner, and Vampire Hunter D...

In the future, don't expect me to be posting this fast. Let me be, Jules This chapter was started on 10-2-05 and it's only out now. I edit at the speed of snail. And KP my master beta and my God--big G tells me I can't spell, and he's oh so very correct.

-

we demand that Fred be recognized as the true funny one

- because we all know this already

we demand that the idea of killing McGonagall never enter your twisted little brain

no killing Draco Malfoy, either

((namagomi means "raw sewage" in Japanese))

**PART I**

**CHAPTER V:**

**MANHOOD & EVIL**

_The breath of the morning, I keep forgetting_

_the smell of the warm summer air_

_I live in a town where you can't smell a thing_

_you watch your feet for cracks in the pavement_

_Up above angels hover, making home movies for the folks back home_

_If all these weird creatures who lock up their spirits draw holes in themselves _

_they'd reveal their secrets ..._

Harry, Ron, Fleur and Charlie apparated to St. Mungo's shortly after lunch. Fleur seemed to have the way to Bill's room memorized, and the rest of the party merely trailed along behind her. The staff seemed to be on edge, as though at any moment they half expected hundreds of cursed, bleeding, dying wizards to be rushed through the nearest door—they seemed to dread it yet they were determined, set upon some personal design. They prowled the hallways with their chins high, like Fleur, pretending they all had something urgent, pressing, productive to do, something that would save them all. Harry felt overpowered by the presence of so many people stubbornly determined not to crack before the pressure arrived.

And Bill, too, sat in his bed determined not to crack, determined not to show pain or fear or any sign of emotion beyond a smile for welcome company. Fleur flew to his side, smothering him in sighs and kisses, barely leaving him a hand to extend to either of his brothers. He managed a gesture of welcome to Charlie, Ron and Harry behind Fleur's back. She was momentarily oblivious. Bill looked especially blue in the face.

"Dearest, you're hurting me," Bill said mildly from under his fiancée. She responded by squealing in a somewhat dignified way and leaping from the bed so as not to cause him any undo pains or sufferings. She opened her mouth to apologize, but Bill took her by the hand before she could begin. He obviously didn't want to have any more of a scene.

"Nice of you all to visit," he said casually, indicating with his head that the three of them should find a place to sit down and make themselves comfortable. "What's the occasion?"

"Zehr is no 'occasion,' you silly! Zeh all wanted to see you, and I wanted to... too?" she said the last part more tentatively, cocking her head to the side, unsure of her English. Bill nodded—she had said it correctly—and she smiled more broadly. Harry suddenly felt a little better about the world for no apparent reason.

"How's the new position treating you, Charlie?" Bill asked conversationally. "Not exactly what you're used to, I'll reckon!"

"Quite right! But it's growing on me," Charlie responded congenially, laughing a little and sitting down in a nearby chair. "But I'll tell you one thing you're sure to enjoy!" And he launched into a very involved and highly amusing tale about a wizard from Algiers who had attempted to sell a Hungarian Ridgeback to what turned out to be a muggle antiques shop in Surrey. By the end of the story, Bill was laughing, as promised. Harry found it particularly funny, having some personal experience with the breed and knowing exactly what Charlie's comedic descriptions truly entailed. Harry also knew the antiques shop, making his mental image of the entire ordeal all the more vivid. Ron was pink in the face as he leaned against the wall beside Charlie's chair, in which Charlie sat cackling at his own story. He was laughing so hard he started coughing.

"Drink of water?" Ron put a hand to Charlie's shoulder. Incapable of speech, Charlie nodded. Ron helped him up and they went out into the hall in search of the nearest guest room.

"Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"Um, while there's a chance... there's something Fleur and I have been meaning to, uh, talk to you about..."

Harry had known it was coming; but had he thought about it since Lupin mentioned it? No. Of course not. He'd been busy with his office, his preparations for the Horcrux, his books... he hadn't had time.

That was a lie, he'd had plenty of time—hours, days, five times as much. He'd merely blocked the subject out because of its personal and most uncomfortable connotations. Of course he hadn't thought about it. Why would he think about something that so blatantly reminded him of Dumbledore, his parents, Sirius, and all the wizarding world? He'd been busy with Voldemort.

"'Arry?"

"Er—sorry—what?"

"Oh, how stupid of me!" Bill knocked himself on the head until Fleur made him stop. "Of course! You wouldn't know what a Protector is. My fault, Harry, my fault—"

"I know what a Protector is. I just... couldn't have heard you right," Harry lied believably. Fleur shot Bill a look that read "Don't underestimate him! He _is_ the Chosen One, after all!" Harry's gaze quickly traveled to the floor.

"Well, Harry, we'd be honored if you'd take the job."

This was it, wasn't it? The first test of his manhood. He couldn't rightly back down now. He couldn't say something mismatched or juvenile. He couldn't get away with not having done the reading. He couldn't look at Hermione's answer, he couldn't ask Ron, and he couldn't re-take the test. This was the real thing now. He took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders, looking across the room to Bill and Fleur sitting together through hell or high water, werewolf bites or mothers-in-law. He felt the answer come to him.

"No," he said softly, regarding the two clearly for the first time. "The honor would be entirely mine."

Fleur launched herself at Harry, eyes watery. Bill just smiled and shook his head, content that his bride-to-be had gotten her way.

Harry was being smothered with tears and kisses as Ron and Charlie returned.

"What happened here?" Ron asked Bill, as Harry was otherwise engaged with the overjoyed half-veela.

"Harry's going to be our Protector," Bill informed.

"Isn't it wonderful?" Fleur released Harry only to fling herself at Ron, startling him with a watery hug. Ron patted her back awkwardly until she let him go, a dazed expression on his face.

"Congratulations, all of you!" Charlie said, shaking Harry's hand and then Bill's.

"Now all we need is the wedding date!" Bill joked from his bed, motioning Fleur to come closer to him.

"Don't talk zhat way," Fleur admonished. She gave Bill a playfully stern look.

"I'll be back to normal before you know it, I promise." And Bill kissed her.

-

-

-

Later that same day, a massive Quiddich match was struck up at the Burrow.

Meant only as a form of civil entertainment, the entire household was quickly whipped into a frenzy. Victor Krum versus Harry Potter was the talk of the house, and everybody was taking sides with rapid speed. Fred and George were to serve as Harry's Beaters; Ron as his Keeper; Charlie and two of Bill's friends as his Chasers. Krum had convinced few of Bill's other friends and schoolmates to join his ranks, but the offers only started to pour in once Ginny volunteered as Krum's first Chaser. The match was on. Team Potter versus Team Krum. Dinner was eaten at odds and from opposite sides of the table, no more than four words spoken together: "Pass the potatoes, please" and "Good game tonight, eh?" all of which came from Mr. or Mrs. Weasley, or perhaps one of the slightly more dignified guests.

Yet many a more dignified wizard had committed his evening to the game, none the less. Both Mr. Weasley and Remus Lupin had volunteered to referee, yet both were ruled to have bias, and—after a lengthy and convivial shouting match between Harry and Krum—Mad Eye Moody was deemed the only adult present without preference either way. Moody had spent most of the afternoon in raucous laughter, declaring the very principle to be juvenile and ridiculous. He found himself on a broom that evening, wearing a bright orange rain slicker belonging to Arthur Weasley, with an old whistle round his neck. He was still mumbling to himself under his breath as he kicked off to inspect the field before the match; he was checking at the insistence of both captains, who were both equally convinced that their opponent had most clearly sabotaged the playing field somehow in one way or another.

"Nothing, children. Nothing at all," Moody said sternly, landing between Harry and Victor with a harrumph.

"You checked thoroughly?" Krum questioned, shouldering Moody playfully.

"Yes."

"You're sure?" Harry laid shoulder into Moody equally from the other side, preventing the older gentleman from the escape he had been attempting. Both captains cracked toothy grins of anticipation.

"Yes, Potter! Now will you give an old man room to breath?" Moody squeezed out from between the overzealous captains and started making his way back to the Burrow. Harry, Victor, and the two teams followed in hot pursuit.

"Where're you going, Moody?" Charlie shouted, his broom slung over his shoulder. "Isn't the match about to start?"

"Isn't the pitch in the other direction?" Fred muttered agreeably. He received muffled sniggers from both teams in reply.

"We need you on the pitch!" protested Williams, one of Bill's friends from Egypt. Williams was tall and broad, twenty-something, and carried a Beater's club with an ease gained from many years of play. He gave Harry a measuring glance as the two captains stood shoulder to shoulder.

"The old man is going for a second helping of treacle tart," Moody shouted over his shoulder, still retreating to the house. "Captains, take your players to the pitch... and mind your manners. No funny stuff, you hear me?"

They didn't. Harry and Victor were already racing each other to the Weasley's apple orchard.

-

"Victor's in the lead, 120 to 80. Ginny just scored on Ron again, Mrs. Weasley," Hermione informed Mrs. Weasley as the older woman approached from the house. "How's Williams doing?" Williams had taken one of George's bludgers to the head and was currently recovering up at the Burrow. Mrs. Weasley shook her head and tutted as Harry called a time out from the air, signaling his team to come in.

"He'll be alright in the morning, I'll dare say. But this game is getting a little too rough for my tastes, Hermione..."

"Oh, we fixed Ginny's eye, alright," Fred told his mother, out of breath. "It's all good clean fun and games, Mum!"

Mrs. Weasley mumbled something about "a little too much fun for one day" and walked off to the other side of the field to check on her only daughter. Hermione approached Harry before the rest of his team landed around him to absorb his attentions.

"Harry!" she called, waving her arms to catch his eye. "Harry, haven't you had enough?"

"I'm not quitting, Hermione!" he said hoarsely, moping sweat from his brow with his sleeve. On the other side of the orchard, Victor appeared in similar condition. "Anyway, the match isn't over yet. I can still get 'em!" Ron landed beside Harry.

"Don't worry, Hermione," Ron panted, winded. "I won't let Harry kill your precious Vicky... well, not completely, anyway!" He laughed and clapped Harry on the back, still wheezing.

Hermione tossed her bushy hair over her shoulder and went to cheer on Krum's side of the orchard.

"C'amon, everybody," Harry said passionately, turning to his huddling team. "With Williams out of the way, I think I can finally get Krum."

"How's your nose, Harry?" Charlie asked.

"Better." He touched the bridge of his nose gingerly, feeling where it was still bruised. He had taken one of Williams' bludgers to the face earlier in the game. Blood everywhere, he had barely made it to the ground to get patched up. Blood still caked down the front of his shirt, he considered himself rather lucky compared to Williams; the man had taken a George Weasley special to the back of the head. He'd be alright when he woke up, though... in a day or two. Harry diverted his mind back to the matter at hand.

"Fred, George, I need you two to head off Baker, and don't be afraid to send one at Ginny, either. Ron, you've got to start blocking some shots. If you can do that, and you two keep Baker off me, I can trick Krum. I've got an idea. Just keep Baker the bloody fuck away from me and I'll be alright! Got all that?"

There was a collective nod around the huddle. Harry was pumped up on dried blood and adrenaline.

"Ace. Let's go!"

"Captains, are we ready?" Moody asked from the relative center of the orchard. Harry and Krum nodded. Nasty comments were shouted across the field, nasty hand gestures peeking between the apple trees. Moody blew his whistle and play resumed.

Harry flew high over the pitch, scanning the sky for the snitch as well as for Baker's stray bludgers that had been catching him off guard every few minutes previously. The man liked to send bludgers straight into the air, inevitably striking a Seeker, and sometimes his own Seeker. Baker didn't really seem to care weather he hit Krum or Harry—he was happy just to hit something, Harry thought bitterly. Harry soared higher still, keeping a wary, bloodshot, twitching eye on Krum.

His enemy was circling the goal posts, concentrating on the action of the game and shouting commands to his players: the ideal captain. Harry just let people do relatively whatever the hell they wanted, being more concerned with his own job than with anyone else's.

Then he spotted it. Glittering golden among the apples of the orchard, the snitch was flitting around the trunks of the trees, weaving in and out in random surges. He began to lower himself, casually, hoping to keep his advantage over Krum as long as possible. His opponent was busy shouting orders at Ginny, who had just gotten her hands on the quaffle. Harry seized his opportunity while Krum's back was turned, shooting like a dart toward the snitch at ground level.

But Krum was on to him. World-class seeker, he was speeding along the ground like a snake as Harry hurtled down from the sky in a graceful dive. They raced like bullets, set upon a target. They danced between the trees, darting around trunks and dodging stray branches, eyes fixed upon their glittering goal.

Then, ahead, there was a boulder with an unpruned branch above it. Harry would have no choice but to fling himself over it after the snitch. Krum, whose path lay unobstructed before him, would surely get the snitch if Harry dodged the branch. He stole a final look at Krum: iron jaw jaunty but determined. Something at the back of Harry's mind began to grow, taking on a form and a life of its own, feeding off the very air he breathed. Before he could stop himself, he acted.

"Oi! Krum!"

Krum turned to look at him.

Harry smiled.

Sparks flew. The blast from Harry's wand tossed Krum into the nearest tree. Harry's smile broadened as he took Krum's path without a glance behind. Arm stretched out before him, he grasped the snitch with sure fingers, blood on his hands.

-

"HARRY POTTER, I COULD KILL YOU!" Hermione shouted.

"Harry Potter, I could kiss you..." Fred muttered.

"I assume this means my services are no longer required," Moody mumbled, disengaging himself from the orange parka.

_It worked_,Harry realized with a jolt. _No one knew the difference_—_not even Moody! _He had used Dark Magic right under their noses, giving Krum a nosebleed that only a certain counter jinx would stop, then casting an illegal mass-memory charm so that no one would remember the flash of light.

"Nice hit, Harry," Krum said in a friendly voice, head between his knees with a bloody rag held to his face. His accent was more pronounced when his head was upside down. Hermione hovered at his side, casting murderous glances in Harry's direction. Ginny—nose in the air—had marched off into the house the moment her broomstick hit the ground. Harry figured that if she hadn't been angry enough to hex him before the match, she certainly was now.

"Nice hit? NICE HIT!" Hermione repeated, sounding more wounded than her charge. "He punched you and all you have to say is 'nice hit?'"

"It _was_ a really great punch, Hermione," Ron said mildly.

"Harry, I thought you had more class," she added in a moral voice, ignoring Ron's comment entirely and fixing her guilt-inspiring glare on Harry. He felt his ears burn a little under the sheen of sweat on his face. She always managed to make him feel like dragon dung—it was a great talent of hers.

"Victor, please let me take a look at that..." Krum obliged. He lifted his head and removed the cloth to display a brilliantly blackening eye and a copious amount of blood pouring out of his nose.

"No hard feelings, Victor," Harry said, flinching.

"It's nothing," Krum said over the top of Hermione's head as she examined him, her back turned squarely and purposefully to Harry and Ron. "But... how did you know I was about to hit _you_?"

"Er—" Harry hadn't known. He hadn't known a thing. "I just knew."

Krum smiled and nodded as his nose continued to bleed.

-

-

-

Harry wrung the last few drops of Krum's blood out of the dish rag while standing at the work table in his office. Hermione was tending to her precious martyred Vicky in the Burrow's kitchen. Ron was in the shower. And Fred and George were outside with Ginny, setting the scene for Harry's dirty work. The last drops of blood having been coaxed into a jar, Harry threw the rag into the fire. He snatched up his invisibility cloak and headed back to the Burrow, ready to do what must be done.

-

"Victor!"

"I am fine, Her-my-oh-ninee," Krum mumbled, half-conscious from blood-loss.

"No you're not! I can see it in your eyes..." She held his face in her hands.

"It will stop bleeding as soon as you stop worrying," Krum said, gazing sweetly back at her. Harry thought he was about to gag under his invisibility cloak. He aimed his wand at Krum's back, turning his head before he had to watch them kiss. Thinking the counter curse with all his might may not have been entirely necessary, but it helped block out the sound that was undoubtedly Hermione's surprised moan of joy as Victor kissed her. Harry really didn't want to think about kissing anybody. He fired off the counter curse that would prevent Krum from bleeding to death and then got the hell out of the kitchen, thinking it was a very good thing that Ron was just as bad a legilimens as he was.

-

"Are you sure, George?" Ginny asked, genuinely not wanting to paralyze her brother.

"Yes, it should be perfectly safe," George said back. He was standing with his back pressed up against the Burrow's outside wall, just beside an open window. "Just give me your best shot—right at my chest. Got it?"

"And you're positive that that hat will stop it?" George was in fact wearing the single most hideous of all bowler hats that has ever been seen. There was a pause.

Harry—wearing his invisibility cloak—was standing next to Fred. When he tapped Fred on the shoulder twice, that meant that everything was ready to go. Should he tap Fred only once, that meant abort mission. Harry tapped twice and ran over to George.

"Yep. We're positive," Fred said with a smirk. However, no one saw this evil grin but Harry, who was perched in the open window. But it was too late for George.

"Alright, then." Ginny pulled out her wand and took aim at George. She froze. "And if it doesn't work, and the Ministry comes out here to cart me away for under aged wizardry?"

"Then we'll say it was Harry," Fred said coolly. "The Daily Prophet will love it: 'Disturbed Potter Hexes Innocent Entrepreneur.'"

"Fine by me," Ginny said, smiling. "Here goes..." And she fired a spectacular Bat-Bogey Hex right at George.

Harry leapt from the window sill, placing himself between George and the spell. George's face was screwed up in nervous anticipation—the hat Fred had given him was nothing more than a dreadfully ugly bowler hat and all three men knew it. Should Harry somehow not be there to capture the hex, George would be toast.

But Harry was there, capture phial in hand. Ginny's Bat-Bogey Hex was reduced to a tiny _whiss_ ten inches from George's nose.

George let out a sigh of relief.

"I owe you one," Harry whispered to George.

George nodded, too much fear dissipating out of his system to allow for speech.

"I guess it works, Fred," Ginny said, turning to her brother. "How much are you selling them for?"

"We were thinking fifteen galleons a piece."

"You'd better charge less if they're all that ugly..."

"Hey! This one's actually my hat!" George yelled. His lousy humor was back: he was fine.

Harry slipped through the open window, his prize in hand.

-

-

-

"I'd say it went rather well," Fred whispered.

"Yeah, you would..." George whispered back.

"How many times do I have to tell you? You don't have to whisper. No one can hear us." Harry had cast _Muffliato_ the moment he entered the upstairs bathroom for his three-o'clock-in-the-morning meeting with Fred and George. Secrecy was key.

"But it did go rather well," Fred insisted, tentatively at normal volume.

"Yeah, it did," Harry agreed. "But I need to ask you one more favor before I kip out for a while."

"What's that?"

"Well," Harry curled up on the over-large windowsill, as Fred and George had previously seated themselves on the rim of the bathtub and the toilet tank, respectively. He paused for a moment to collect his words. "How did you say you got the idea for that disguise, again?"

"Book of old 'wanted' posters we bought a while back—"

"Fred used to be crazy about dark wizards who got away—"

"_Anyway_," Fred continued, "There's this one guy I've always been interested in; he was amazing. No one knew exactly who he was, but the Ministry called him 'D.'"

"'D?'"

"Yeah, I know! Cool, huh?"

George rolled his eyes, as though he'd heard it at at least a hundred times before.

"He wasn't a bounty hunter, was he?" Harry asked, thinking back.

"Well... I guess he was. He was part of the Ministry's Vampire Raids, back when George and I were real young. He was a foreigner, you see, and he came to England after the Ministry hired him. He did what they paid him for but... he started taking jobs on the side, I guess. Murders, selling Ministry secrets, assassinations, torture... the Ministry put a price on his head, and he spent the next couple years killing all the guys trying to kill him; his friends, you know?"

"How'd you know he was a hunter?" George interrupted.

"Er—" Harry coughed, "just guessed."

"After he took out most of his competition, the Death Eaters came after him. I'm not sure why, though. Some people thought he tried to double-cross them. Other people say the Death Eaters saw him as a threat. He ended up killing a lot of them, but then he disappeared. People never knew much about him specifically, but most Ministry workers have at least heard of him."

"How long ago did he disappear?"

"Ten years ago?" George suggested.

"More like eight or nine," Fred corrected after scratching his head in deep contemplation. "Anyway, no one's ever seen him. He could still be around..."

"And wouldn't you just die?" George teased.

"So that's where you got the idea?" Harry asked Fred; Harry had learned long ago that sometimes, you're better off ignoring George.

"Yeah. I bought the hat about the same time he disappeared..."

"You said that the Ministry called him 'D,'" Harry got up to stretch his legs, thinking back to find any other questions he'd had. "Didn't anyone know who he was?"

"Nope. That's partly why I liked him, I suppose. With that big hat and cloak, he could have been anybody, you know? I'm sure there were some people who knew who he was, but they were probably other assassins. There were rumors that he was a real ladies man, but there were a lot of other rumors, too. Some people said he was trying to overthrow You Know Who. Some people thought he was a friend of Dumbledore's. Still, other people thought he was part vampire. But no one ever knew anything for sure."

"Then that makes my request that much more difficult," Harry sighed. "I need a name."

"For 'D'?"

"Yeah."

"No way..." George muttered. "Harry, there's absolutely no way..."

"A name, an address, someone else's name, anything! I just need something so I can track this guy down, or at least find out what happened to him."

"We'll see what we can do," Fred said.

"But no promises," George added firmly.

"No promises," Harry agreed. "But... you said he was foreign. Are you sure?"

"Relatively."

"Well..." Harry said slowly, "sources tell me he was Austrian. And he may or may not have a daughter near our age."

"Sources?"

"Better not to know."

"Harry, why do you want to find this guy? He obviously doesn't want to be found..." Fred leaned forward, a worried expression creasing his brow.

"Assuming he's alive..." George was ignored.

"Best not to know any of the particulars," Harry responded portentously, pacing the length of the Weasley's tiny bathroom. Running his fingers through his hair, he turned to face the window. The countryside was silent, no wind awake at this hour to stir the fields into a frenzy. Nothing moved as he stared out the window with unfocused eyes. "I think he knows something: something big. And even if he's dead, I know he must have left some kind of clue behind. You can't cover up something like this."

"Like what?" George was hit upside the head following this statement.

"I'll be gone in forty-eight hours. If you've got anything to say, I'd suggest you say it now."

"Can you tell us where you'll be?"

"Well..." Harry thought for a moment. He had already told Lupin, so chances stood that Harry had already told the entire Order of the Phoenix, too. If the Order knew about it, then everybody knew about it, for all practical purposes. "I'll be at Godrick's Hollow with Ron and Hermione. We're leaving at night, so Ginny won't know that we're gone until your Mum and Dad can, er... restrain her." Fred and George chuckled.

"I should be there for a day or so. Then... I really can't say."

"You'll make contact, though?" Fred asked.

"I hope so. If things go well, you should hear from me about a week after I disappear. If things don't go well..." Harry stifled a yawn, "could be up to a month or so."

"And if we find something on 'D,' how do we make contact with you?"

"I'm hoping to have someone to send within the month. Can't say who," Harry added quickly, sensing the question George was about to pose. "But I'll think I'll have someone by then."

"You're coming back for Bill's wedding, right?" George asked suddenly.

"Er—I can't miss it, actually," Harry pronounced awkwardly. "I'm, er, in it."

"You're Bill's best man? When did that happen?"

"Um... it's, er, worse," Harry rolled himself into a ball on the windowsill, staring blankly out the window once again. "I'm his protector."

"Shit," Fred muttered.


	6. Chapter Eighteen

**TITLE: "THE GUNMAN" **

**AUTHOR: **sordid humor

**CATEGORY: **Adventure

**SUB-CATEGORY: **Humor; Romance; Drama

**RATING: (**Sesame Street) brought to you by the letter M: "M" is for mutual satisfaction

**DISCLAIMER: **

I do not own them in a box,

I do not own them with a fox,

I do not own them whilst I'm bowling,

They all belong to J.K. Rowling.

- lyrics from Pink Floyd's _Wish You Were Here_, a wonderful piece of music

- and from _I Will Follow You into the Dark_ by Death Cab for Cutie, equally superb

because I really need two theme songs for this chapter--you'll know why later. Trust me...

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **

count: 5500 running count: 32,200

Sorry for the lateness of it all: master beta and I had a bit of a falling out, which subsequently explains why my grammar appears a bit wonky. Apologies.

It feels great to be here. I'm not sure where here is, or how I got here, but damn is it amazing. I'm already to chapter six. The requirements continue to flood in, racing toward insanity and impending doom at ever-increasing speeds, but no matter. I just feel lucky to be here.

As for Harry Potter, well ... that poor bugger. He's about to get it.

-

-we demand repeated appearances of young Mr. Quincy and the honorable Mr. Jones

-we demand toilets overhead

-we demand that Harry Potter stick his nose where it doesn't belong

-we demand from now onward never to be compared to those persons formerly known as

"The Nights Who Say 'Ni'"

-

-

-

(( come now, I will not be tantalized... you conceive too much of articulation ))

**PART I**

**CHAPTER VI: **

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN **

**(NO, THIS IS NOT A MISTAKE) **

_So, so you think you can tell  
heaven from hell?  
Blue skies from pain?  
Can you tell a green field  
from a cold steel rail?   
A smile from a veil?  
Do you think you can tell?  
And did they get you to trade  
Your heroes for ghosts?  
Hot ashes for trees?  
Hot air for a cool breeze?   
Cold comfort for change?  
And did you exchange  
a walk on part in the war  
for a lead role in a cage? _

"Hermione, hurry up," Harry whispered to the door once again.

Ron rolled his eyes from the bottom of the stairs, slinging a light jacket over his shoulders and picking up an old briefcase. He and Harry had spent the better part of the evening enchanting the battered case to hold all of Ron's supplies for the next week. Hermione—ever mindful of Harry's pressing desire to be on his way—had spent her evening chattering away with Krum and the Weasleys. She now scrambled to get her things in order.

"Herm, we're leaving."

Harry turned from the door and made his way carefully down to where Ron stood, silently dancing his way past the sleeping Crookshanks in the middle of the staircase. Ron mimed his amusement and frustration in one exaggerated exhalation directed at womankind in general. Harry pulled on his sweatshirt and slung his messenger bag over his shoulder, smoothing the strap over his chest. He nodded to Ron, and they began to creep through the great room towards the kitchen, cramming food into their pockets and picking up a few bottles of Butterbeer. Harry used a spell from _The Darkest Room_ to silence the squeak of the kitchen door as they stepped out into the garden and out into the world.

-

Dew hung on the fields, moon hung high in the sky; Harry's mind began to wander as he and Ron put distance between themselves and the Burrow. He thought back to what Fred and George had told him about the mysterious Mister D whom he had impersonated in Kavall's shop. He couldn't risk returning to Kavall before he knew more about D. Meeting Kavall again could be death if the man's connections were as they appeared. And who else might Harry come into contact with while running about Knocknurn Alley in disguise? Who else might remember an assassin ten years past his prime? It could not be risked.

For a moment, Harry's thoughts turned to Voldemort. He had spent his entire life standing against everything Lord Voldemort was, yet now he was nearly becoming that which he had so passionately fought against. Dumbledore had introduced him to the core of Voldemort's power, yet he was now preparing to take on that very power as his own. Everything he had ever known was twisting; warping beyond repair, unrecognizable when compared to what it once was. The realms of his youth were crumbling at his feet and daring him to fall as well. Sometimes he wondered whether he was already falling with them...

Harry thought about the task ahead of him: his own horcrux. Everything was ready in his office, at his side. He had talked himself into this and he was determined to follow through even if it killed him. Or half of him. If Voldemort could live on one seventh of a soul, he could surely survive with half, he reasoned. He was going to go through with it. It might not even be so bad. At least it would be his...

"Wait up!" Hermione panted, interrupting his thoughts. She was skipping a few paces behind him, her overlarge shoulder bag bouncing off her hip with every step. Harry and Ron both knew that everything a human could ever need was magically concealed in that bag of hers, but they had previously decided to ignore her as punishment for... something. Ron wouldn't say what, and Harry didn't care to inquire. His spirits were rumpled enough as it was. He wanted to make a clean get away, and Hermione—with her running after him and her boyfriend and her overlarge bag and whatnot—needless to say, Hermione was not approaching Harry on his good side.

"What are you, deaf?" she asked, coming up between Harry and Ron with a little huff. She flipped a bit of hair away from her eyes.

"No, and the Ministry bloody well isn't, either," Ron snapped. "They're probably watching us right now. You know that, don't you?"

"Of course I do, Ronald," she bit back. "That's why we're not apparating; right, Harry."

It wasn't a question and Harry knew as much. Rather than become involved, he merely plodded on. _One foot in front of the other,_ he thought. _One foot after the other and eventually I'll get there_. There was London, unbeknownst to Ron and possibly Hermione. Using Luna's map, Harry was able to discern a number of public apparition points in and around the city that he, Ron and Hermione could use undetected so long as they traveled separately. He had made out a bit of parchment for each of them with every apparition point listed in a different order. He was somewhat proud of himself: the Ministry would have no way of tracking them beyond London once they transfered to the muggle train that would take them to Godrick's Hollow. So long as Hermione and Ron followed his directions, all three of them should arrive at King's Cross Station at twenty minutes to noon from three separate directions to catch the twelve o'clock train northbound. It was a nice little plan, he thought.

Harry was distracted from his plan by the sound of yelling.

"Ron! How dare you say such—"

"I'll say whatever I bloody want to!"

"Would you both just _shut up_?" Harry yelled, stopping and staring incredulously at his two best friends. "There are more important things to worry about right now. The sun will be up soon, and if someone hasn't already spotted us, they certainly will." Ron and Hermione seemed to lay their differences aside at the tone of Harry's voice; reminiscent of his commanding words at the Ministry not so long ago, but now somehow weary; tired, worn down by destruction and time.

"Here are your directives—I think it's the only way we can shake the Ministry and the Order in one shot," Harry handed them each their slip of parchment and enough muggle notes for a train ticket. "Apparate as fast as possible. Never go through the same site twice. Don't hang around any particular spot, or we might see one another. Don't talk to anyone, but don't look nervous, either. Look busy."

Ron looked somewhat bewildered; as though his best mate had unzipped his skin to reveal someone Ron had never met before. Hermione appeared strategic and determined; she was already studying the list of points, committing them to memory.

"Burn the lists. Good luck." He disapparated.

-

-

-

"Jones! Jones, wake up!" young Mr. Quincy whispered urgently, shaking his sleeping partner. "Jones! They're gone!"

"Huh? What, man!" the honorable Mr. Jones mumbled. He rubbed at the sleep in his eyes and sat up, giving young Mr. Quincy an incredulous look. "What did you say?"

"They're gone..." Mr. Quincy was a young man; a recent recruit to the Ministry, and even more recently assigned to Mr. Jones for mentoring. Jones had given Quincy the dog watch, knowing that Harry Potter would not depart until first light.

"Damn it, Quincy! You let him get away!" the honorable Mr. Jones snapped, peeking over the bush they had been using for cover.

"But there were others with him..." Quincy muttered, looking away.

"Rubbish. Our information said he would depart alone. There was no one with him. You're imagining things, Quincy," Jones said sharply. His information was never wrong. He had the most reliable of sources. That was why Minister Scrimgeour himself had asked him to keep track of Harry Potter. And if it hadn't been for that rooky, Quincy, Jones would still have his eyes on Potter at this very moment.

"But..." Quincy protested.

"Rubbish! Not a word of it, Quincy! Not a damned word," Jones snapped. Harry Potter had gotten away.

-

Hermione lowered her copy of _OK Magazine_ with an air of blazè detachment and peered through her overlarge sun glasses as the door to her compartment slid open. An elderly man poked his overlong nose into the compartment and jumped slightly when his eyes fell upon Hermione. She didn't remove her sunglasses. He removed his plaid cap.

"Are yeh expecting anyone, lass?" he asked in a clear Scottish accent, rotating his cap slowly in his bony fingers as he waited expectantly at the door.

Hermione froze for an instant, unsure of herself.

"That is to say, lass," the old man cleared his throat carefully, "is that seat taken?" and he gestured to the seat across from Hermione.

"Oh," she ruffled the pages of her magazine indifferently, "no."

Entering the compartment and sliding the door shut behind himself, the elderly gentleman took a moment to appraise her before sitting down by the window, replacing the cap on his head with a flourish born of time and graceful youth. Hermione skimmed her gossip magazine without taking in a word, watching for Harry and Ron out of the corner of her eye. The train would be leaving in a few minutes, and she was beginning to worry.

"Where yeh headed, if yeh don't mind my askin'?" The old man spoke in a conversational tone, watching people on the platform from his place by the window.

"North." Hermione was short, never looking up from her magazine in case the old man was Ministry. He let out a little chuckle at her obstinacy.

"I should hope so, lass, this train bein' the northbound one!" He chuckled a bit more to fill the silence. When Hermione only turned a page, the man fell silent. He contented himself to watch the people on the platform in silence. They were gathering their belongings and kissing their loved ones goodbye as the train was about to depart. Hermione turned yet another page of celebrity gossip as the final whistle rang out along the platform.

Hermione looked up at a sudden sound in the hallway close by. It sounded like two passengers had collided in their hurry to get on the train. She could hear one of them apologizing to the other as they came closer to her compartment.

"I really am sorry, mam!" she heard a familiar voice repeat, louder. A disgruntled looking woman stalked past the compartment window, dragging her bags behind her, her hat askew. Several heavy footsteps later, Hermione saw Ron's face moving past the compartment door. She jumped to her feet, tossing the magazine onto the seat beside her and yanking open the door before Ron had passed her by.

"Darling!" she called for the benefit of anyone close enough to hear or see. "I'm in here, Ronald!"

Ron jumped--whether it was because she had startled him or because she had called him "darling" she couldn't be sure, nor did she happen to distinctly care. The important thing was that he had turned at the sound of her voice. That was all that mattered.

"Oh, there you are," he said, cottoning on and covering the distance between them.

"I was worried you might not make it," she replied coyly, smiling up at him. He was almost as tall as Victor, she noted.

"Would I _ever_ let you down, darling?" He slipped his arm around her waist as he drew her face closer to his own. Hermione rolled her eyes at him.

"Never," she droned sardonically. He simply smirked, lifting an eyebrow in a shifty fashion and refusing to loosen his grip on her. He bent down and kissed her forehead affectionately. Now he was just being ridiculous.

"Aren't you going to invite me in, dearest?" he whispered, lips in her hair.

She shoved him away, heaving a mighty _harrumph_ as she turned back toward the compartment. Throwing herself down onto her seat and snatching up her magazine, she heard rather than saw Ron close the compartment door with a small snap. Seeing the old man snoring softly in his seat across from Hermione, Ron took up the seat next to her. Hermione scooted away from Ron, leafing through her magazine to find her place. Ron slumped down in his seat. The old man let out a snort in his sleep, his head rolling to the side as the train lurched forward.

"Think the old bugger's asleep?" Ron whispered--very close to Hermione's ear--startling her. He had gotten very close without her noticing...

"You didn't have to be so rude, Ronald," Hermione scoffed in a hushed voice, moving still further away from him, still fuming over his behavior outside the compartment.

"Oh, come on," Ron threw his overlarge hands in the air after kicking his tattered briefcase under the seat. "I was just playing along--you're the genius who started it, so don't you go an' complain."

Hermione wasn't really listening. She was staring out the window with growing anxiety as the train began gathering speed down the tracks. In what seemed like a sudden flash of light, the train broke free of King's Cross Station, speeding into a rare London-morning sunlight.

"Dementors must not be breeding today," she mused, trying to move farther away from Ron but finding her shoulder pressed firmly to the compartment wall. She fluffed her magazine indignantly.

"Hermione... where's Harry?" Ron suddenly looked all of a frightened twelve years old. He ran a nervous hand through his hair. His eyes snapped from the empty seat in their compartment to the doorway, and finally to Hermione. She could feel the panic in his eyes.

"Your guess is as good as mine, Ronald." This time, when he put his lips to her hair, she at least knew he was sincere.

-

-

-

The napping elderly gentleman from Ron and Hermione's compartment made his way to the lavatory half way through the journey to Godrick's Hollow. Once the lavatory door had been securely and sufficiently locked he removed his cap, retrieving from it a rather battered copy of the tome _Great Britain: A History_. He opened the book to page seven hundred and twenty three and went inside without further ceremony.

His feet landed firmly on the threadbare carpet. He pulled a harmonica from his pocket and breathed wheezily into it. Several sneak-o-scopes began rattling from their strategic places on the many shelves.

"Good," he muttered, relieved to hear the proper voice emanating from his body once more. He removed his clothing, folding each item and placing them in one of the trunks standing near his desk. The correction of his height, weight, and facial features was attained through an incantation.

"_Veritas_." It was funny that an incantation roughly meaning "truth" would be deemed illegal by the Ministry of Magic. It wasn't so much that _Veritas_ itself was punishable by law, but the spells it reversed certainly were. It had taken him days to perfect a single disguise, but _Veritas_ could strip it all away in one blazing second. He stood for a moment; breathing, feeling the planes and bony angles of his face restored. "Don't stop now," he ordered himself, hot breath pouring over his fingers.

Picking up his invisibility cloak and silencing a sneak-o-scope, he thought of the lavatory above...

-

-

-

He spotted them on the platform at Godrick's Hollow; granted, it wasn't difficult to spot two bemused-looking teenagers on an otherwise empty platform. Still acclimating himself to the fact that he was a six-foot something blonde, he folded his map and made his way to them.

"Hi," he said in greeting, still about ten meters away.

"Hello," Hermione responded calmly. She gave him a short smile and turned to resume her conversation with Ron.

She clearly didn't recognize his voice without his body to go with it. This troubled Harry greatly. He cleared his throat and closed the ten meters between them.

"I'm very disappointed in you both. I heard every word. What if I was Ministry?"

"Huh?" Ron's eyebrows came together as he stared at Harry over the top of Hermione's head.

"Ron--you twit--it's me." Ron blinked a few times before understanding.

"You gave us quite a scare, Harry," Hermione informed him with a brief hug. "We worried when we didn't see you."

"But you did," he said slowly, hoping she'd figure it out on her own. She didn't. "We should get going."

-

The sun had already set as they walked through the little town of Godrick's Hollow. Hermione had produced several candy bars from her oversize bag, so they ate as they walked.

"Wonder what happened to the old man on the train," Ron said through a mouthful of chocolate and raisins.

"That... that was you, wasn't it, Harry?" Hermione turned on Harry, pointing a finger at him as she looked up at his temporarily blonde head.

"Could you tell?" He was anxious to hear how his first original disguise had worked--he had hoped it wasn't too blatant. But he knew that anything good enough to fool Hermione would certainly be enough to fool the Ministry...

"Not at all, no!" she answered. "You'll have to show me how you did it."

Harry didn't think so; but he smiled and nodded, anyway. He had a lot on his mind and was anxious to get to the beginning of Lord Voldemort's end.

-

-

-

Later that same night--at the inn at Godrick's Hollow--Hermione and Harry talked over Ron's snores. Harry brought out the severed page he had found in Voldemort's book and showed it to Hermione. Wrapped in Harry's blankets and wearing her red pyjamas, she scanned the page and looked up at him, startled. She was shocked; how could he have gone to muggle school and never read _The Prince_ by Niccolo Machiavelli? How, indeed. Harry had shrugged and asked her if she planned on monopolizing his bed for the remainder of the evening. She laughed, saying she was glad he'd picked up something about economics if not political philosophy. He smiled, realizing how much he would miss her. He excused himself to go to the bathroom, and by the time he returned she was asleep. Kissing her cheek and turning a blanket over Ron's exposed feet, he left.

Outside the mist had returned, making it nearly impossible to see within five meters of oneself. Harry walked through the cemetery at the edge of the sleepy muggle town, stooping to read the names on each headstone. Sneaking out of the inn with his bag at his side, he had decided it was better not to think at all. There was no time for thinking now, only action.

Walking between the graves, he recalled how little time he truly had. If Voldemort were to come tomorrow--or even this very night--he would put up the best fight he could. If he knew the Dark Lord would be waiting for him in that cemetery, he would not run. He would stand and fight. He would always stand and fight.

Yet the Dark Lord was not waiting for him at his mother's grave. The Dark Lord wasn't going to kill him yet. It wasn't the fear of death that made Harry Potter hesitate as he knelt before the headstone, but the fear of the unknown. Voldemort could come tonight, tomorrow or any day he chose and Harry would be none the wiser. No matter how prepared he was, no matter how many weapons he possessed, it was all up to Lord Voldemort in the end. He could be coming tomorrow, and Harry would never know. Harry could only wait. And that was what scared him.

Harry recalled the first time he'd ever spoken to Voldemort, back in his first year at Hogwarts. He had known so little then, about magic and the past. And Voldemort had known it--he had offered Harry a chance at unlimited power, the ability to do unthinkable things; the ability to get his family back, the ability to have everything he'd ever wanted. And he'd turned it all down; not because he knew that Voldemort was lying and would never share that power, but because he had never wanted power to begin with. Dumbledore had helped him come to realize that. He'd had so many opportunities to become powerful beyond his wildest dreams, but he'd never taken any of them. He knew in his heart that he would be unable to wield it. It wasn't that he feared power: he simply knew that power was not what he sought above all else. He had seen men of immense power, seen their lives and the choices they'd had to make, and he knew he was not meant to be one of them. He was never endowed with such power for a reason.

But now he needed such power. He was not Dumbledore: he could never truly battle Voldemort and emerge alive. He'd been lucky, he'd had help--he couldn't face Voldemort and he knew it. This time he would need so much more than luck. He needed a power beyond his wildest dreams, a power so strong and so unexpected that not even the Dark Lord himself would suspect until it was too late.

No one else could do this. No one else would ever have the opportunity to get at Voldemort in such a way. For some reason beyond himself, Harry knew that he was the one meant for this. Call it prophecy, call it fate, call it what you will; he was the one with the opportunity. He was the one with the strength. He wanted to get to Voldemort: he wanted to kill him more than anything else he knew. He was the man who could do it.

And now he would have that dreadful power. Now he would create it for himself: he had the need, and his magic would create the means to meet him head on.

He raised his sword and began the incantation, chanting it under his breath as he made the long, ritualistic cuts to his forearms and chest. He traced them intricately, lovingly with the potion-tipped wand. His muscles tensed as the concoction burned in his veins. At least this was his.

The potion becoming more intense, he moved to replace his shirt against the chill of the fog.

"Dobby," he whispered. "It's time." And a moment later the house elf appeared with Hermione levitating just behind him, still asleep.

"You gave her the potions?" he confirmed, needing to use her but not wanting to harm her. The elf nodded in return, oblivious--as Harry wished them all to be. "That will be all. Thank you." And he turned to her sleeping form, sword in hand, tendrils of blood snaking their way down his arms and the smalls of his back. They had yet to soak through his shirt. He didn't have much time. It had to be done.

He threw the capture phial against the headstone and the sound of enchanted glass shattering filled the night air for a startling instant. Then blue smoke began to curl from the remnants of the phial; it quickly wrapped the two of them in its odor of rot and fear. Before she was lost from his sight he snatched her arm and pulled her to him. With a hand pressed firmly over her mouth to keep her from screaming, he drove his blade through the center of her.

"Ex Umbris In Veritatem."

Icy tendrils of pain and shock ran through his body, dropping him to his knees. The blue smoke was filling his lungs, taking him over. Slumped on his side, the last thing he saw was her; eyes closed, covered in blood, laid out before his mother's grave.

-

-

-

A bird was chirping in a very shrill fashion. Its pangs were hurting her ears. Hermione sat up slowly, shielding her eyes from the intensity of the morning light. Supporting her weight with some difficulty, she wondered how she had gotten outside. The last she remembered, she and Harry had been talking about Machiavelli... and then she looked down. She screamed.

The front of her pyjamas... covered in blood. In frenzied panic she searched herself for the source of the blood but could find none. There was only a tear in her pyjamas, near her stomach. She felt dizzy; she felt as dizzy as though she had actually lost that much blood. She felt sick. What on earth had happened?

She looked up, startled. Two men had come running into the graveyard, and--judging by the way they were dressed--they were clearly wizards. They wore an assortment of swimming gear, Halloween costumes and womens dressing gowns. In her dazed and sickened state, she braced herself for the onslaught of Ministry bureaucracy.

"Miss, are you alright?" the younger of the two men asked, kneeling down beside her and seizing her by the shoulders. He looked her in the face very critically before scanning her person for the source of all the blood.

"Never mind the girl, Quincy!" the older man shouted, his head pivoting, eyes jerking about like a nervous animal. "We have to find him! We have to find Potter!"

"Miss?" Quincy seemed to ignore his superior for the first time in his measly existence. "Are you hurt?" He still held her gently by the shoulders.

"I..." Hermione could hardly speak. Her mind was a complete blank. One minute she had been sitting with Harry and the next... she had woken up at his mother's grave, covered in blood and accosted by Ministry officials. She voiced the strongest question of all.

"Where's Harry?"

-

-

-

He had woken up with a start about an hour later, feeling nothing but the cold ground beneath him and the beginnings of a pounding headache. As soon as sentience and volition had knitted themselves anew so he could move, he glanced at his watch: three o'clock in the morning. He could catch the three thirty train to London if he hurried. He reached for his bag and pulled on a sweatshirt; the wind would only get colder.

With the hood of his sweatshirt pulled over his head to obscure his face, he shouldered his bag and got slowly to his feet. Every muscle in his body seemed to be dead set against him. Nothing was cooperating, his vision included. Removing his glasses helped. He didn't understand why but didn't bother to question. He could figure everything out once he got away.

He staggered out of the cemetery and got his head on straight soon thereafter. Once he could think properly he started to run. The last thing he needed at this point was to miss the train.

-

Coming into the train station, he couldn't help but notice how winded he felt. He used to run twice that distance when living with the Dursleys or training for Quiddich. Something was definitely wrong. As he slowed to a trot on the platform, the skin across his chest began to ache as though it had been pinched and then stretched. He could hardly catch his breath. The strap of his bag strained against his breast, doubling the pressure bearing down on his lungs.

At the end of the platform was a man in his early twenties wearing blue jeans and smoking a cigarette. He had looked up just as Harry had arrived. The man cocked his head to the side when Harry doubled over to rest his hands on his burning thighs.

"Here for the three thirty?" the man with the cigarette asked. Harry just nodded, too little air in his lungs to power his vocal chords.

"You made it just in time, looks like," he said, tossing his smoke aside and smothering it with the heel of his shoe. The train's whistles sounding in the distance, the man smiled at Harry. His smile only broadened when it was returned. Harry would have thought the man's behavior odd had he not been distracted by the sensation of a gravitational magnet pulling his chest to the station floor. His hair was in his eyes.

Getting on the train minutes later, he had yet another strange sensation. When he lifted his leg to mount the steps into the car, his boxers felt as though they were wet and stuck to his legs. How could he have pissed himself? It wasn't possible. He reasoned that he was imagining things, but made his way to the bathroom anyway. Besides, creepy smoking guy appeared to be following him. Harry lost the guy as the train started off.

He closed the restroom door behind himself with a dry click and sighed. The smoking muggle was the only one following him and a few nonverbal spells confirmed it. He was tempted to sneak off to his office and collect himself but wanted to get to the source of his strange sensations first. He could barely keep his eyes open.

He had to pee. He shuffled over to the urinal and unzipped his jeans.

He paused.

Something was wrong.

Something was missing.

There followed a rapid mental expulsion of thought. Though difficult to articulate the true function of the human brain, it may have felt something akin to the following: mydickisgone mydickisgone mydickisgone mydickisaaagh ! Something like that, yes.

Harry was trembling. He brought his hand up in front of his face. His fingers were small, thin, shaking. There was blood on them. It must have been from before. Steeling himself, he reached to where he... should have been, and sure enough his tiny fingers emerged with fresh blood. His heart was thumping so hard against his ribs that it actually hurt--either it was his heart or the stretching in his chest was getting worse. Not knowing what else to do, he zipped up his pants and turned to wash the blood off his hands.

Then he saw his reflection. He flattened himself against the bathroom wall with jarring force, denying his eyes. He felt the coolness of the wall against his shoulder blades, the heat of the light against his face, the press of his feet against the floor. He knew who he was.

He opened his eyes and couldn't find himself.

What he saw was not himself but a woman. He couldn't recognize her but she was beautiful, he thought. Her beauty was the thing that struck him, it was so powerful to him. He reached to touch her, her hands emerging in the mirror's pale reflection. She had a round face and tiny mouth, the pinkest he'd ever seen. He wanted to touch her; he couldn't believe. Her large brown eyes went wide, dainty brows arching as her fingertips met the side of her porcelain face. Orange freckles dusted the skin beneath her eyes like flecks of gold. She was the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen.

Was he...

He shook his head--and she shook hers, dark hair falling out from beneath the hood of his sweatshirt. Her bangs fell before her eyes yet she continued to stare back at him. He felt uneasy under her gaze and didn't know why.

Harry had a sudden pain in his stomach, just below the belt. It felt as though he'd just been kicked by an angry mountain troll. He grimaced and she did too. Her eyes narrowed and her bangs further crossed her face. His gut gave another wrenching contraction and she gasped; a gentle, pained sound foreign to his ears. She put a hand to the counter top and leaned her weight on it, his sweatshirt hiding all but her fingertips from view. She closed her eyes for a moment only to open them sharply and be startled by her own reflection once more.

"Ouhi," she breathed. Her voice was soft, throaty. She had passion and inflection in that single breath. He couldn't believe what he was seeing, what he was hearing, feeling... it couldn't be happening. It simply couldn't. Magic didn't work that way...

The whistles blew once more, echoed by countless other trains. He could feel the train slowing as it came into the next station, closer to London with every breath, with every stop. If he didn't get back to his seat soon, cigarette man might notice and come looking for him... for her. Certain things began to make sense.

Not completely understanding himself, she hooked a finger around the collar of his sweatshirt and she pulled. He questioned, she looking down...

"BHUAGH!!!"

Their eyes snapped shut and their head snapped back.

_Won't be doing that again... _

-

-

-

_Love of mine, someday you will die _

_but I'll be close behind, and follow you into the dark_

_through blinding light, or tunnels to gates of white _

_just our hands clasped so tight _

_waiting for the hint of a spark _

_If heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied;_

_illuminate the "NO"'s on their vacancy signs,_

_If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks _

_Then I'll follow you into the dark _

_In catholic school—as vicious as Roman rule— _

_I got my knuckles bruised by a lady in black _

_I held my tongue as she told me, "son, _

_fear is the heart of love." So I never went back. _

_If heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied;_

_illuminate the "NO"'s on their vacancy signs,_

_If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks _

_Then I'll follow you into the dark _

_You and me have seen everything to see _

_from Bangkok to Calgary _

_And the soles of your shoes are all worn down; _

_the time for sleep is now _

_It's nothing to cry about _

_'cause we'll hold each other soon _

_in the blackest of rooms _

_If heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied;_

_illuminate the "NO"'s on their vacancy signs,_

_If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks _

_Then I'll follow you into the dark _

_I'll follow you into the dark _


	7. In medias res

**TITLE: "THE GUNMAN" **

**AUTHOR: **sordid humor

**CATEGORY:** Adventure

**SUB-CATEGORY: **Humor; Romance; Drama

**RATING: **this episodebrought to you by the letter M: "M" is for morbid curiosity

**DISCLAIMER:**

I do not own them in a box,

I do not own them with a fox

I do not own them while I'm bowling

They all belong to J.K. Rowling

-lyrics from _Politik _by Coldplay

-George Lucas dreamed up Star Wars, not me

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **

count: 6,000 running count:

Welcome to the beginning of Part II; the beginning of the end!

- - -

we demand an underground death cult

- a cult, underground, having something to do with death

we demand Finland

we demand Star Wars

we demand no making fun of Draco Malfoy—Lucius, fine; Draco, no!

we demand a drug dealer

- preferably ex-military but still militant

we demand an albino

we demand tampons

we demand there be prophecy, prophesy, and more prophecy

there must be telepathy

we demand Jaron

- not the first or the second or even the third!

we demand a fruitcake and a wife named Melissa in the same sentence

we demand the continuation of chapter 5's Christo-centric imagery

we demand Stalin

- or Lenin; either will do

(( Tony Blair for extra credit! ))

(( boy, I'm an industrious little bugger, aren't I? ))

**PART II **

**CHAPTER VII: **

**IN MEDIAS RES.**

**("Into the middle of things") **

_Look at earth from outer space _

_everyone must find a place _

_Give me time and give me space _

_Give me real, don't give me fake _

_Give me strength, reserve, control, _

_give me heart and give me soul _

_Give me time give us a kiss _

_Tell me your own politik _

_Give me one, 'cause one is best _

_In confusion, confidence_

_Give me peace of mind and trust_

_Don't forget the rest of us _

_Give me strength, reserve, control, _

_give me heart and give me soul _

_Wounds that heal and cracks that fix _

_Tell me your own politik _

_And open up your eyes _

_Open up your eyes _

_Open up your eyes_

_Open up your eyes _

_This cannot be happening, not now,_ Minerva McGonagall thought to herself as she raced down the corridors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, gathering speed with every step. Only days ago, she would have thought herself too old to run at such a break-neck speed. But after running so much the last seventy two hours, the ever-quickening pace was almost normal. Almost.

She skidded to a stop before the stone gargoyle that guarded the passage way to the Headmaster's office: her office. She had been so preoccupied with the Ministry and the Order of the Phoenix that she had yet to enter the place since Dumbledore's passing. Catching her breath in pulls less ragged than she had first anticipated, she gave the statue her predecessor's password.

The stone gargoyle stared back at her, immobile.

"Toffee truffles," she repeated, articulating each syllable, unwilling to wait any longer than she had to. If the reports were true, she had absolutely no time to waste. The statue wasn't springing aside. It wasn't moving at all. "Toffee truffles!"

Nothing.

"Minerva! Minerva!" Professor Flitwick was sprinting outright down the corridor towards her, clutching his robes up around his knobbly knees as he ran.

"They've found him!" she called in disbelief, turning from the unresponsive gargoyle to face her colleague.

"Worse," he panted. "It's true! He's gone!"

"They lost him?"

"Sounds more like he gave them the slip, actually... I must say I'm not entirely surprised."

"He never did like being watched," McGonagall conceded, giving up on the idea of getting into her office entirely. She had bigger problems, now. "Tell me everything you've heard."

"Well, the Ministry managed to track him down in Godrick's Hollow, as you had thought, but somewhere between last night and this morning... he disappeared. He managed to disable our shields as well as the Ministry's: he'll be absolutely untraceable." Flitwick had a kind of gleam in his eye despite the weary expression worn into his features. It was almost as though--despite the danger--he secretly wanted Harry Potter to get away, to break free from the restraints of his past and soar into his destiny. Flitwick was mad.

"That can't be! I set some of those shields myself. There's no way Potter could disable any of them and not leave some sort of trace behind. He simply does not possess the knowledge! This is much worse than the Ministry could ever surmise."

"You don't think... You Know Who?" Flitwick covered his mouth with trembling fingers as though to stifle the fear escaping his lips.

"He Who Must Not Be Named... his Death Eaters... Dementors, Werewolves, Vampires! Any of them could have easily overcome the Ministry's 'defenses' in Godrick's Hollow. I knew we should have sent some of our own--"

"But who would we have sent?" Flitwick threw his hands hopelessly into the air, letting them flop down listlessly at his sides. "There's no one left, Minerva! And now Harry's gone!" The little man leaned against the stone wall in abject defeat; McGonagall sometimes forgot how much the man cared for Harry Potter--how much they all cared for the Boy Who Lived.

"We'll get him back. We'll find him," McGonagall reassured him, leaning against the wall herself. "We have to... before anyone else does..."

-

Sitting at her desk in her old office, Professor McGonagall was trying to put together the pieces of the currently dismembered state of things.

Harry Potter was missing. After everything that had been done to keep him safe, after all the precautions that had been taken, he was gone. There was no way that he had slipped out of Godrick's Hollow on his own. She had seen to it that he could hardly move without her knowledge. There was no way he had gone out on his own. She knew Harry Potter too well--the boy wouldn't leave without his friends. He wouldn't have struck out on his own. That only left the option that he had been taken.

There were so many things hunting him; she thought he had somehow always been aware of it, but she now wondered just how much he knew. It was rumored that He Who Must Not Be Named had recently struck a deal with a number of distinguished vampires, knowing that the lesser of their kind would follow where the powerful led. There had been seven suspected vampire killings in the last week, and she knew it was only the beginning. Though Harry didn't have the skill necessary to disarm her shields, it would be child's play to a vampire. The thought only made her worry more.

And who was after him now? The possibilities were astounding: vampires, Dementors, Death Eaters, giants, werewolves, Inferi... not to mention the countless Aurors and Ministry Officials who would be swarming around every dead-end lead in order to maintain appearances of accountability and effectiveness, leaving her and her fellow members of the Order of the Phoenix overwhelmed. They were so overburdened as it was that Kingsley Shackelbolt was using an illegal timeturner in order to play secretary to the muggle Prime Minister by day and guard a fallen member's widow and children by night. Nymphadora Tonks looked as though she hadn't slept since Harry Potter left Surrey. However were they going to find him?

She looked up from a stack of papers when Professor Flitwick burst into her office.

"Did you get the Headmaster's office open already?" she asked, a little surprised, laying her papers aside. Setting eyes on Professor Flitwick, she leapt out from behind her desk.

"Gawain Robards! He's dead!"

"What? How?"

"The Death Eaters set another bridge explosion, and this time they didn't just kill muggles! There were at least twenty Ministry officials on the bridge when it went!"

"And the Ministry is sure that Robards was killed?" McGonagall paced in front of her desk, thinking madly of what to do next.

"Yes. The muggles have already found his body." Flitwick paused. "Do you think this has something to do with Harry's disappearance?"

"If the Death Eaters have Potter, they would naturally want to prevent the Ministry from tracking them: murdering the Head of the Aurors Office would certainly complicate the Ministry's response. If He Who Must Not Be Named has Potter, the Ministry's certainly not going to save him."

As though the Ministry of Magic wasn't ineffective beforehand.

-

Lying in bed that night, Minerva McGonagall found herself utterly unable to sleep. Her mind kept running from one problem to the next: the Headmaster's office, Harry Potter's disappearance, Gawain Robards' death... DuMont...

Above all else, that particular problem had her baffled. It had been reported to the Order that a dangerous bounty hunter--whom she knew to be dead--had broken into Albus Dumbledore's vault at Gringotts, the key to which she had given to Harry Potter the very night the vault had been emptied.

_How?_ The question ran through her mind over and over again like a child's train on a looped track. How had the man done it? How had he gotten the key to that vault? How had he even known about the vault? How had he come back from the dead? ...And where had he been all this time, if he had never been dead to begin with? And if he hadn't died, how had he ever escaped He Who Must Not Be Named?

How did a dead man manage to empty an unknown vault hidden in the depths of Gringotts Wizarding Bank?

And if DuMont was back from the dead, what did he want now?

She recalled in vivid detail a time shortly after He Who Must Not Be Named had come to power, a time in which untold numbers of witches and wizards around the world began to form covert organizations by which to combat He Who Must Not Be Named. It was during this time that the Order of the Phoenix had been founded, as had a number of other prominent groups... and the Order of the Phoenix could not have been the only one to survive. Minerva distinctly recalled a mercurial band of murderers and petty thieves who idolized a little known foreign assassin named DuMont; they believed that DuMont was the only person capable of destroying He Who Must Not Be Named. The group never achieved anything of consequence, and their idol, DuMont, never actually joined their ranks--but a number of similar groups had emerged, groups centered around any zealot with the ambition to take the stage. There had been too many of such groups to count during the time that He Who Must Not Be Named enacted his reign of terror. How many of those groups were still in existence, Minerva wondered. How many more could rise up in light of current events? How much damage could be inflicted by such men and their obsequious followers? How much of that damage would the Order of the Phoenix be able to withstand?

The Head of the Aurors Office was dead. Albus Dumbledore was dead. And Harry Potter--the Boy Who Lived--was missing.

The Order of the Phoenix was in tatters, shredded not only by the Death Eaters but by time. The members were getting older; they had families to worry about, jobs and lives. Some of the members were incredibly young--barely graduated from Hogwarts. There were fewer and fewer trained wizards to battle a threat that could end life itself.

Minerva felt so tired; she was the Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and she couldn't get into her own office...

But she had to keep going. Hogwarts would open in a few weeks. For some of those poor children, Hogwarts was the only place they could go--the only place where they would be safe.

-

-

-

Their black robes flapped in the wind; corpses lay scattered at their feet. An unusual, bitter cold lapped relentlessly upon their faces and hands as they watched their master approach. He stepped equally on bodies and dirt. Two of his men went out to meet him.

"He's not going to like this."

"That's why we're not telling him."

Lucius Malfoy stopped and turned to stare at his companion. Fenrir Greyback stared heavily back at him, unperturbed. Fog rolled between them.

"We're... not telling him?"

"No."

"Then what do we do with her?" Malfoy glanced back across the killing field to where she was being held by several of his comrades. The wind bit once more into his frame, throwing back the hood of his robes and exposing him more fully to its wrath.

"Bring her to me."

Both men jumped at the rasp of their master's voice born upon the fog and wind. Both men bent their heads as their master approached.

"But... she's mad!" In an instant, Malfoy fell to the ground with a scream.

"I will be the judge of that, Lucius," the Dark Lord smiled slightly. "Bring her to me."

Greyback lifted an arm, signaling the men to bring her forward. When she had been brought to the top of the hill, the Dark Lord ordered all but his best men away from him. Greyback remained along with Severus Snape, but Malfoy was taken away by his son.

"My Lord," she gasped, clutching the hem of his robes as though they were her only link to life and sanity. "I have seen him! DuMont! He's returned!"

Lord Voldemort peered calmly into the face of Bellatrix Lestrange for a few moments, taking her in as only he could. After those moments passed, he turned to face his men once more.

"And what do you have to say about this, Snape?" he asked calmly, a snake-like hiss on his lips.

"She's gone mad," Snape shrugged, looking down at Bellatrix. "I killed DuMont myself some nine years ago. He's dead: I swear to it." Snape began to probe into her mind, his eyes glazing over.

"I would never lie to you, my Lord!" Bellatrix pleaded from her place among the corpses. "I saw him! He was alive!"

"She does not lie," Voldemort hissed. His red eyes glowed as he continued to stare into her.

"I agree," Snape agreed. His brief exploration of her psyche had proved to him beyond any reasonable doubt that she had indeed seen DuMont back from the dead. "What now, my Lord?"

As Bellatrix was taken away by Wormtail and Malfoy's boy, Voldemort began to stroll the killing field, surveying the damages and observing his men. Snape and Greyback followed closely behind him, a few others trailing in their master's wake. The Dark Lord set a steady pace into the wind, walking languid and erect as his poltroons staggered in the growing storm. Several retreated down the hill to escape the wind's abrasions, but the Dark Lord appeared unaffected. He strolled in bilious reverie.

"If he is seen, he should be killed," Voldemort mused aloud, "but time should not be wasted chasing a man who will not be found until he desires it." Then Voldemort paused mid-step. His cloak was swept around him by a piercing wind that cut every man on the hilltop to the core. "Elias DuMont is for me."

-

-

-

The dusty sign on the shop door read "CLOSED." Moldy curtains were drawn tight across the windows. The hushed voices of those inside were nothing but an indescribable humm and buzz to the few who passed by. The official meeting had begun.

"You're saying he's back?" Lenin questioned--the man was a dead wringer for his muggle namesake, unbeknownst to him.

"Yes. I'm saying he's back," Aunders Kavall replied as calmly as he could, concealing his excitement until having successfully convinced the rest of _Interficiere_ (To Kill) that he wasn't completely mad.

"You're completely mad!" Jennings--a portly and arrogant member of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement--shouted at Kavall around the pipe incessantly clenched in his fatty jowls. He took a self-satisfied sip from his whiskey flask and gave Kavall a dirty look.

"Rubbish," interjected Bigard while scratching his rather large nose. The muggle detective by day--wizard assassin by night--could always be counted on to lend a note of logic to any discussion. Kavall was very thankful for Bigard's support at that moment.

"I agree," said Lenin's brother, Stalin, who looked nothing like his equally unfortunate namesake. Stalin more closely resembled an elderly Winston Churchill. He released a puff of cigar smoke before adding, "What reason would Aunders have to mislead us? Would he not also be misleading himself with such a belief?"

"I say we wait and see if he comes back," said Drake, the American. The dim light in the shop made his buzz cut hair and military dog-tags glisten, making him appear even more menacing than usual.

"I say we find him!" Jennings yelled, whiskey still in hand.

"I say we kill him." Fure--a convicted murderer long-escaped from Georgia--had been sitting quietly in a dark corner of the room, twisting one of his countless daggers between albino fingers. His red eyes glowed. "Ask questions later."

"How do we know this man isn't an impostor, eh?" asked Seväg Scrimgeour. He was an excellent bounty hunter with an impressive record and the curse of the current Minister of Magic for a cousin. His days of being well-paid were over, but he never let it effect his work... which was inherently superb, by Kavall's extensive observation.

"He said he has come to collect his daughter," Kavall said. There was a collective mumbling around the room. Lenin and Stalin had their heads together. Bigard had begun taking notes on a pad of paper. Fure had returned to toying with his throwing knives. Jennings and Drake still appeared skeptical.

"And you spoke with him?" Drake confirmed.

"At length," Kavall informed the group as the side conversations began to subside. "He was exactly as I remembered him." Kavall resumed his seat once more, hoping that he had been convincing enough, and that fate would take her proper course.

"So--believing this man to be DuMont--you gave him the book?" asked Makki, a handsome man in his twenties hailing from Finland. He had only become active in _Interficiere_ after his mother's murder some seven or eight years ago. Since, the young Fin had become an invaluable contact for Kavall, as Makki had recently taken over his family's transport business... specializing in magical contraband. Makki was making them both exceedingly rich individuals.

"Of course he didn't!" Jennings introjected before Kavall could answer. "My old friend would never be so thick-headed, nor so rash!" Sometimes, Kavall wondered why he still considered the old Ministry bloke as remotely valuable. The man could be positively infuriating.

"But... you did?" Seväg deduced from Kavall's silence.

"What?" Lenin spluttered.

"Why?" Stalin demanded in equal shock.

"Well," Kavall sighed, "he seemed the sort of man who would kill me for sport, regardless of the book. He didn't seem to think the book was authentic to begin with."

"Sounds like DuMont," Bigard said soundly.

"DuMont, indeed," Fure agreed, his fiery red eyes locked on the dusty floor.

"So, what do we do now?" asked Sid. Seated in his usual place--atop the register table--the gangly teen had managed to string together his sentence for the day. _Interficiere_ had welcomed the youngster after his parents' recent murders. It was a good day when Sid could raise his voice loud enough to be heard at a meeting. He tugged his wool cap down more firmly over his head before anyone could spot his ears turning pink.

"Wait for him to come back," Drake repeated, sighing as he gestured hopelessly. "There's no use chasing him when he doesn't want to be found." There was a general murmuring off ascent.

"Do you truly believe he'll be coming back, Kavall?" Lenin asked. "You already gave him the book..."

"And the book is _why_ DuMont will come back!" Makki insisted to the older man. "So what if he didn't believe it's authenticity? Once he tries it for himself, he'll want to know if we can provide more!"

"Or he'll come back, kill us all and be done with it," Fure muttered, gesticulating sarcastically with his daggers.

"Why not take our chances?" Bigard offered. He had finished writing on his pad of paper and slipped it in his breast pocket. "Either way, we're dead."

"Right, then. I believe a vote is in order," Kavall proposed in his official capacity as spokesman for _Interficiere_. "All in favor of waiting for DuMont's return?" Going down the ranks, each man gave a nod of approval when his name was called. "It's unanimous: we wait for--"

"It's not unanimous: Fletcher's not here," Stalin reminded him.

"Oh yes, you're right," Kavall said. "He didn't send word to anyone that he would be late?" Kavall scanned the dim, smoky room. Most of the men shook their heads.

"Pray, remind me;" Jennings droned, "we keep him around because... ?" He puffed madly on his pipe.

"Kavall, what will you do when DuMont makes contact again?" Bigard inquired, diverting the group's attention back to more pressing matters of business than its absent members.

"I plan to invite him to our next meeting. I'll let all of you know when I see him next," Kavall said. At that, the men finally seemed calm. Their pieces of the puzzle were now all accounted for; they only needed DuMont to finish the picture: to save the world...

"And now, gentlemen," Bigard stood and announced, "my lovely wife Melissa has made us another fruitcake." And at once he produced the cake from midair with a flourish. The members of _Interficiere_ approached immediately; Mrs. Bigard's cakes and cookies had become a regular tradition at these little get togethers. Poor Melissa Bigard thought her husband was attending a seminar for early retirement investment put on by his superiors at the detective department... poor Mrs. Bigard, indeed.

Just as the men were getting into the fruitcake and idle conversation, a series of grating and popping noises began issuing from the fireplace at the back of the shop. A moment later, one very haggard-looking Mundungus Fletcher came tumbling out onto the hearth. The men continued to eat cake and socialize, doing their best to ignore the little man who had just rolled into the room and was now brushing dirt and soot off himself. Kavall approached him.

"You're too late, Mundungus," he said. "The meeting's been over a full ten minutes, now." Mundungus merely coughed out a respectable amount of black powdery substance and headed for the fruitcake without a word.

-

-

-

_But I assure you, he won't stand with any credibility anywhere._

Prime Minister Tony Blair smiled to himself and turned off the television. He had done it. Despite all odds, he was able to win back the trust of the voters with reforms in education, subsequently making any man to face him in debate into an absolute imbecile in the public eye. He had fought his way back to the top tooth and nail, and it felt absolutely grand. He was just about to pour himself a little brandy for the evening when there was a knock on his office door.

"Shackelbolt? Yes, come in," he said. Over the last few weeks, he had come to the conclusion that--despite what any man who came out of his fireplace had to say--Kingsley Shackelbolt was the best secretary a Prime Minister could ever ask for, end of discussion. The man got more done in one day than all of his predecessors put together. Blair was immensely pleased. Then Kingsly Shackelbolt informed him that Cornelius Fudge was waiting outside.

"Ahem," the grubby little portrait on the wall began portentously, "The Minister of Magic requests an audience with--"

"Let him in," Blair told his secretary, heading for the brandy once again. "Yes, yes! I heard you!" he grumbled at the portrait as he poured himself more than he had planned on a minute ago. "There's enough brandy here for all of us."

The subject of the portrait took his last comment as consent and waddled out of sight. Prime Minister Tony Blair took a fortifying sip before turning to greet Cornelius Fudge. He put on a smile.

"Mr. Fudge! Could I interest you in a glass of brandy, perhaps?"

"Thank you, no," Fudge responded, sounding out of breath. He collapsed in a chair before Blair's desk and removed his signature bowler hat, twisting and turning it in an agitated fashion. For a moment, Blair wondered what Fudge did with the hat when he wasn't about to announce terrible news.

"What seems to be the trouble, then?" Blair wondered in the back of his mind if all this was about that bridge explosion earlier in the day.

"Harry Potter is missing," Rufus Scrimgeour announced appearing from the hearth and dusting his wizards robes regally before seating himself beside Fudge in an equally majestic fashion.

"I'm sorry--who?" Blair had decided that he wasn't going to panic. Chances were there was absolutely nothing he could do about any of it, anyway.

"That's what I was here to explain," Fudge said. "You might recall my telling you about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?"

"Ah, Lord Veldersomething-or-another," Blair nodded from the swiveling chair behind his desk. "Yes, I recall."

"Well, when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was believed dead some years ago, Harry Potter had been He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's last intended victim. But Potter wasn't killed, and he's become somewhat of a national hero," Fudge heaved a minute sigh, as though the whole thing was just a little too silly for his taste. "There's been talk of his being the _Chosen One_ of prophecy, come to deliver us from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named..."

"And now he's missing?"

"Yes," Scrimgeour confirmed. "On an all together different note--by law--I'm required to inform you that seventeen muggles have been taken to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries to be treated for exposure to the Imperius Curse. We're investigating five other cases; you'll be notified should the Ministry see it fit to take any further action." The man was a drone, Blair thought idly. He wouldn't hold up very well in debate. "Good day." Scrimgeour got up to leave and Fudge began to do the same.

"Wait, I have a question," Blair said calmly, rising from his seat as well so as to prevent his magical guests from diving off into the fireplace without another word.

"And what is that, Minister?" Scrimgeour asked politely.

"The bridge explosion this morning--Albanian terrorists--that was you people?"

"He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, yes," Scrimgeour said.

"I'd heard Gawain Robards was killed in that." Fudge seemed unsure of his information; Blair took it as a sign that things were worse for the Other Ministry than either of the wizards lead on.

"Yes, he was."

"Who?" Blair couldn't help but ask.

"Gawain Robards, Head of the Auror Office," Scrimgeour informed.

"I'm terribly sorry," Blair shook his head a little, "office of what?"

"The Auror Office in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement," Fudge explained hurriedly. "Aurors... destroy dark wizards," he said simply in his rush. Blair had a sudden mental image of a hundred magic-wielding Darth Vaders converging on a lone Luke Skywalker, little glowing sword in hand.

"Dark wizards? Like _Star Wars_, and the dark side of the force?" Blair asked wildly.

But his question was asked in vain, as the two wizards from the light side had just gone out his fireplace in a show of sparks and howling green light.

-

-

-

"Ron, why is Hermione packing her trunk in such a rush?" Ginny asked, joining her brother at the Burrow's kitchen table. Ron--whose face was red and buried in his hands--thought it was very amiable of his sister to pretend she hadn't heard the screaming.

"Because she's going to Bulgaria," Ron answered, not taking his watery eyes off a particular knot in the wooden table. Staring made it easier for him to forget the lump in his throat.

"And why's that?" Ginny continued calmly, a gentle hand on Ron's shoulder.

"Because she thinks it's my fault Harry ran away..."

"Oh, Ron!" Ginny scoffed, "I'm sure Hermione doesn't feel that way." She tried to give a little laugh but found herself unable when Ron was clearly suffering so.

"Fine, then," Ron said savagely, "she thinks it's _her_ fault that Harry ran away and she can't stand the sight of my face anymore!" He shot his sister a teary, wounded expression and sniffed. "Either way, she's just running away, too."

"Why don't you try and talk to her? I'm sure she doesn't really want to leave," Ginny suggested. Ron snorted loudly.

"Look, Ginny," Ron rounded on his sister, "it's real bloody nice of you to pretend you didn't hear us going at it a minute ago, but it's not helping any! She's made her decision, and I'm done with her!" He got up from the table and paced the room, fingers locked behind his neck with lanky elbows protruding.

"And when we all go back to Hogwarts in the fall... what will you do then?" Ginny sighed. "Ignore her?"

"I'm not going back." Ron gazed out the window above the kitchen sink, thinking deep thoughts about the future and the past.

"Good luck telling Mum and Dad," Ginny said, getting up and heading for the door.

"Telling me what?" Mrs. Weasley asked from the doorway with a load of laundry in her arms. "Hmm?"

"Nothing," Ron called from his place before the window, still lost in thought. He knew that Harry would be alright no matter where he was--Harry could always take care of himself. But why had he left without his best friends? Ron couldn't understand it. Why wouldn't his best mate want him around, especially when they needed each other the most? "Good luck, Harry," he whispered to the glass and the rare sunshine on the other side. "I dunno what you're doing now... but you're sure gonna need it."

-

-

-

She woke up the next morning and he was gone. Either that or he woke up the next morning and she was there. Or rather, she was in his head, holding him hostage. Perhaps it wasn't his head at all: perhaps it was he who had invaded hers.

_Where am I going?_ he wondered.

_--Shut up._

He tried to raise an eyebrow in confusion but found himself unable to control her eyebrows anymore. _But I-- _

_--No. Shut up._

He shut it. She was going straight for Platform 9 and 3/4.

Harry had taken a quick nap on the train ride back from Godrick's Hollow. When creepy smoking muggle had woken him up for the stop at King's Cross Station, he hadn't been himself anymore. _She_ had been there. She smiled sweetly at smoking guy and thanked him for waking her. Harry was unnerved, but hadn't bothered to say anything to her about it. Maybe it was better to let her charm the guy--he could have been Ministry, anyway. She would therefore have fooled the Ministry, throwing them off his trail. Or her trail. He wasn't quite sure. He was still half asleep when she got off the train, wide awake.

It was very early on a weekday morning but witches and wizards were already up and about and getting to work. The platform wasn't very crowded and she could maneuver easily without calling attention to herself. She made her way over to the portion of the platform devoted to apparition departures and before he knew it, they were both inside the Leaky Cauldron. Her apparating skills were far beyond his own.

Harry spotted a comfortable looking chair hiding in the corner and longed to gaze longingly at it. He couldn't help but begin to ask if he might _sit down? _

_--No. I said shut up._

Figures.

Blowing past Tom the bartender before he had a chance to notice her, she took Harry out into the dazzling sunlight of Diagon Alley in the morning.

-

Later that afternoon she was sitting in a muggle bakery having coffee and a danish, plenty of money in her pocket and a newspaper under her coffee cup. She had just sat down to read the newspaper when a young man in a wool cap approached her. He glanced around, jumpy. There were dark circles beneath his eyes and he seemed nervous, as though he rarely spoke to strange young women in bakeries. She recognized him from outside Gringotts, when she was exchanging for muggle currency. The young man tugged his hat down on his head with both hands before clearing his throat and leaning toward her.

"Uh, sorry to bother you," he mumbled. "I saw you back at the bank." He appeared to be acting against his nature by speaking to her, which made for a good sign. She nodded simply, accepting what he had said.

"Would you care to sit down?" she asked, indicating the seat on the other side of the table with an elegant gesture. Her movements were slow and planned, graceful as a swan or a ballerina. Her voice could be mesmerizing.

"Thanks," he returned, seating himself only to spring up a moment later in a hunched back position, offering her his hand across the smallish table. "Sid Spivery."

She took his hand in hers, smiling. "Harry."

"That's a very interesting name for a girl," Sid commented, crossing his long legs awkwardly under the tiny coffee table and gazing out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the silly muggles passing by. She laughed easily, gently.

"Well, my father always wanted a boy; so when my mother named me Harriet he called me Harry," she explained. "Now everyone does." She took a sip of her coffee, more to warm her fingertips than to satisfy any thirst. Even with Harry's sweatshirt she was cold.

"I wouldn't have stopped you, except that you look like someone I know--or, someone my parents... knew..." Sid said plainly, still looking away from her uncomfortably. "You wouldn't be from outside London, would you?"

This was her moment. "As a matter of fact I am," she said after another sip of coffee. "I'm Austrian." Sid smiled, a big toothy grin that split his face and belied his age amid a face wearied of late.

"I've never been there myself, but I've been told it's rather beautiful," he commented, toying with a ripped end of her muggle newspaper. She knew what he was getting at now: he left it all too clear to her. "Especially the mountains to the west."

"Ah, but I would disagree," she quipped playfully, tearing a piece of her pastry and brandishing it at him. "My father is from the east and would have more than a few words on the subject." That was what he wanted. He could not turn to look at her now.

"And what," Sid bucked up his courage for his most important query, "what does your father think of this recent mess concerning the Ministry's... enemy number one?" He asked the question very quietly so as not to draw any undesirable muggle attention. She spotted his nonverbal spell from beneath the table. She smiled; a true smile.

"On that particular subject my father and I are of one mind," she said, pulling forward slightly to draw her coffee and his attention to herself. He leaned further toward her still, eyes glued to the slender fingers she wound about her cup. "Harry Potter has had many problems," she sighed, "most of which never happened."

And then Sid laughed.

And then there was a mighty explosion several miles away that rocked the entire city of London, muggle and wizarding alike.

-

Harriet stood in line at the muggle police station later that day. She stood in line with hundreds of other people at that particular station as thousands of people stood at countless other stations or glued to their televisions and radios. The muggles didn't know about Gawain Robards--they were blathering on about Albanian terrorists. The two women standing in line in front of her bickered over what would be attacked next: one said the food supply, another the educational system. Both blamed Prime Minister Tony Blair for their woes. Poor Prime Minister... personally, Harriet thought it would be most efficacious to go for the intricate and vital subway systems, were she a terrorist. Thankfully, she had more important things to do than bomb the London Underground--she had officers of the law to hoodwink: far more important as well as far more entertaining. Harry waited in anticipation. It was easier to keep his mind off things once Harriet showed him how to pick muggle's brains for useful pieces of news--much faster than reading the papers, she said. That's how she learned about tampons. Harry didn't want to recall the scene in the ladies room on the way to the police station. He'd blocked it out of his memory for all eternity. She had been intensely amused.

_What are we going to say? _Harry asked.

_--Could you leave me alone, possibly? _was her retort. _I'm busy looking gorgeous and in distress_.

Harry agreed. She'd broken one of his old quills and used it to pull her hair back away from her face to emphasize the round openness of her eyes. She'd ripped his sweatshirt and gotten dirt on the knees of his jeans and on her pretty hands. She looked as though she'd been in the explosion--

_--Thanks. That's what I was going for._ She was reading his mind again. He'd have to practice his Occlumency if he ever wanted a minute alone. --_Good luck with that_. Damn it!

There was a purposefully placed cut on her arm revealed by one of the torn patches on his sweatshirt: it was one of Harry's cuts from the night before that she had reopened with her wand--Sirius' wand that she had taken as her own. She had it hidden up his sleeve now, the handle tucked firmly under the band of Harry's watch, the pressure of which also kept the watch from slipping right off her tiny wrist. The entire time she waited in line, not once did she reach to secure it, not once did she move to touch it in the slightest bit. Harry wanted to reassure himself of its presence but could not--she wouldn't let him. They couldn't call special attention to themselves, she reminded him. Why didn't he go back to reading people's thoughts and leave her alone?

When she reached the front of the make-shift line designated for survivors and victim's families, she was confronted by a list of the dead scrolling across a television set. The list of names appeared endless: they ran from the top of the screen to the bottom in three columns; a constant succession, a reminder of the destructive power of Lord Voldemort.

--_Shut up!_ she insisted. _Can't you stop thinking about that bloke for all of a second? It's as though you're in love with him!_ She was mocking him.

_I am not! He killed my parents! He's directly responsible for the deaths of thousands of people! And he's going to kill me, too-- _

_--Blah, blah, blah. _She was scanning the lists of the dead and heard his whining as one hears elevator music. _Yes, yes. Shut up, now. _

_Grrr... _Harry fumed.

_--Watch and learn, ass hole._

An officer waved her forward. Clutching Harry's sweatshirt about herself, she made her way to the officer's desk. The man didn't glance away from his computer monitor even as she approached. Harry thought the man should at least have the decency to look up. _--Wait. Just wait. _

She moved so quickly, so silently that the officer never knew she was coming until it was too late. She pulled her wand from up Harry's sleeve and whacked the computer with it--hard. She coughed to mask the thunk of wood meeting industrial plastic and her wand was safely stowed away by the time the officer had a chance to look up with a somewhat startled expression. _Yeah, she's pretty. Quit staring, _Harry thought.

_--Thank you: you're distracting: shut up. _

"How can I help you, miss?" the officer asked. She flashed him a worried, mournful yet acceptably flirtatious, anxious smile.

"My uncle was killed in the explosion," she explained in a panicked voice and the officer merely nodded. "I barely made it out in time, myself," as the officer could see and took detached notice of.

"Do you have identification?" While giving her the up-and-down the officer noted that something was wrong--she lacked a purse; and as all beautiful, sensible and fashionable women never leave the house without their purses, this lacking was a clear indication of a serious underlying problem. The officer actually bothered to look at her. Reading the man's sudden, rash and rather disturbing thoughts, Harry growled.

"No," she replied, clutching the neckline of Harry's torn sweatshirt and gazing vacantly across the busy room. "I must have lost my purse when..."

"I understand, miss." The officer typed garbage on his computer keyboard as he attempted to get a better look at her cleavage. Harry wished he could make a fist, or at least feel a vein pulsating in his neck; she said it was a silly urge that would pass more quickly if he would just _leave her the fuck alone_. "I'll see if I can look you up in the system through your uncle," the officer continued. He held down the _backspace_ button for a short time before asking, "What's your uncle's name?"

She glanced at the scrolling list of names. "Foxworthy," she said. "Jaron Foxworthy." The officer typed, clicked, and waited.

"I have a J. Foxworthy here," he peered at the screen. "Originally from Staffordshire?"

"No," she answered. She had her cold fingers dug into Harry's pockets. "My Uncle was from Wolverhampton."

"Ah, yes. Here we are," the officer said at last. "Jaron A. Foxworthy of Wolverhampton." He glanced up at her again, not seeing the fear or the determination set in her face. "Death Certificates won't be available for a few days yet, but I can try and get you a replacement identification card."

"That would be lovely, thank you."

"Name?"

"Harriet Foxworthy." In a matter of fifteen minutes, she had identification for herself and her "cousin," Liam--who looked remarkably like Harry Potter except with shorter hair, blue eyes and no glasses--and the officer's telephone number.

--_Now for lunch. I'm craving something salty..._

-

-

-

**ADDITIONAL AUTHOR'S NOTE, BECAUSE ONE IS APPARENTLY NO LONER ENOUGH TO SLAKE MY LUST: **

At least I've gone back and fixed all the paragraph breaks. You have to admit that I'e done SOMETHING... TT

Sorry my grammar's gone to pot: the master beta no longer speaks to me. Sorry my creativity's gone to pot: that's a long and convoluted story. I'll be grasping at threads as long as I can in the hopes of creating something possibly valid. For this moment let's just pretend that I'm a good writer...


	8. Talos

**TITLE: "THE GUNMAN" **

**AUTHOR: **sordid humor

**CATEGORY: **Adventure

**SUB-CATEGORY: **Humor; Romance; Drama

**RATING: **brought to you by the letter M: "M" is for mastectomy

**DISCLAIMER: **

I do not own them in a box,

I do not own them with a fox,

I do not own them while I'm bowling,

They all belong to J.K. Rowling

**- **lyrics from _Aqueous Transmission_ by Incubus, "Morning View" Album -

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **

count: 4,000 running count: 42,000

**I share a birthday with Bill Weasley.**

**-**

As I put it in my personal archive of notes on 10-5-05, "Harry expecting to become debonair, suave and intrinsically evil... and ending up with breasts." And later, 10-10-05: "Don't we all wish we could turn into random pieces of furniture at will? We know we do..." Boy, I had some great things to say in October of yesteryear... anyway.

Bippidy boppidy boo! I am your dancing monkey! Another chapter, special for you! Thanks to all those who read: Josie, Jules, Stephie-pooh the guinea pig beta, gabriel mortimer, the wonderful Wayne, Exiled Rain, EsperJones, MollyCoddles, drewmiller90, Voldemorts-understudy, bandgsecurtiyaw, LuciferIsDivine, lluvatar, slanno, EmlyC, Miles, cucullen, wolfowicz, assorted and sordid namagomi mazokus, und meine Zimmerkolleginnen wem ich liebe! You guys make the toil rewarding at the end of the day. Sorry it took me so long to figure that out!

- - -

-we demand telos

-we demand Pan-Slavism

(Look closely now... the Slavs are in there twice! Brownie points to whomever figures it out first!)

-we request some small piece of your Drew

-we demand that ever-mysterious, violet-wearing, top-hat-dropping little fellow known to you only as Dedalus Diggle

-we demand we demand P.C.T.G.

with the original sentence structure, or else...

-we demand that Ron get P.C.T.G.ed

-we demand that Ginny NOT do the P.C.T.G.-ing

aka: the bombarding

(( Talos, guardian of Crete in ancient Greek mythology for brownie points! ))

-

-

-

(( for Drew, who dug me out from the endless spirit ditch ))

(( and where would the world be without John Tavner? ))

**PART II **

**CHAPTER VIII: **

**TALOS (ZEN)**

_I'm floating down a river  
Oars freed from their holes long ago  
Lying face up on the floor of my vessel  
I marvel at the stars  
And feel my heart overflow  
_

_Further down the river...  
_

_Two weeks without my lover  
I'm in this boat alone  
Floating down a river named emotion  
Will I make it back to shore  
Or drift into the unknown_

Further down the river...

I'm building an antenna  
Transmissions will be sent when I am through  
Maybe we could meet again further down the river  
And share what we both discovered  
Then revel in the view

Further down the river...

I'm floating down a river...  


_-_

_-_

-

There is only so far that a man may go.

There are some in this world who believe in destiny and still others who believe in predestination. Who is in the right has yet to be decided. And yet we may say that man appears transfixed upon his own future: and ultimately his own end. The young set out to seek their fortunes and the old ascribe to the ancient schools of fate. Call it what you will; it would seem that we can't leave the idea alone. Just what lies beyond the horizon? Do I deserve it? And however do I attain it?

There is only so far that a man may go.

There are some things which are best left alone. And yet man—being a curiously self-annihilating creature—must insert himself into such things because—clearly—there is some way he can make it worse before it begins to heal. Clearly, man must pick at a scab until he has created a scar rather than trust in the natural order of things. Just because some things are better left alone does not mean that man knows this.

There is only so far that a man may go.

There is a point at which man realizes where he ends and where something greater begins. It takes a certain man of mindfulness and humility to find this end. It is the end which every man seeks: the point where his body ends and his soul takes flight.

-

-

-

Arthur Weasley heaved a sigh. He was not the only one sighing in Diagon Alley. Indeed, he was hardly the only wizard exhaling in wonder and fear. The mass magical suicides still had the power to take a person's breath away.

Arthur had been reassigned to an emergency task force, on-call twenty four hours a day in order to mask further wizardly deaths from the muggle public. Scrimgeour and the muggle Prime Minister were able to blame most of the suicides on post-traumatic stress disorder from the recent London bombing disasters... and a Pan-Slavist backlash from the Albanian terrorists, of course.

But this one had been big. So what if the muggles hadn't actually seen it; one doesn't need eyes in order to feel utter despair washing over one's body until it penetrates the soul.

He had somehow known that this would happen. He had been praying it wouldn't happen so soon. Someone had burned Dementors' blood—they had actually gone and done it. The fumes from burning Dementors' blood—a Ministry of Magic banned substance—could cause anyone who breathed it to die of utter despair on the spot. Hundreds if not thousands of people could be killed by it on a sunny day. Diagon Alley was filled with corpses—sprawled out in the streets, piled high as the street signs on the corner, dangling from windows. Arthur hadn't seen such a large cloud of despair and misery hovering over Diagon Alley since before Fred and George were born... since the days of Albus Dumbledore and You-Know-Who.

There was a pernicious sense of unease coating England: the muggles blamed it on a contaminated water supply, which they subsequently blamed on their poor minster; the wizards blamed it on the death of Albus Dumbledore, and subsequently You-Know-Who... although they were all too afraid to actually say it. Minister Scrimgeour had gone so far as to issue a proclamation stating that any publication propagating news about-concerning-or-in-any-way-in-relation-to You-Know-Who or his followers would be subject to a ten thousand galleon fine and would have their publication rights suspended indefinitely. Now, Arthur sighed, the public was frightened _and_ uninformed.

Arthur looked up from the bloodstreaked pavingstones to see the oddest pair picking their way through the corpses toward him: Casimir Jennings from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement accompanied by Hestia Jones of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. At first Arthur merely saw Jennings—as poor Hestia was well hidden by Jennings' corpulence—but as they neared him Arthur could see her dark head peeking around the man's sides like a little bird in those silly clocks that muggles called "cuckoo." Arthur skirted a mound of bodies as he went up to meet them.

"Weasley! Good thing we found you!" Jennings called robustly. It was a surprise to see that he had dispensed with his pipe... possibly due to the levity of the situation—or the lingering Dementors blood—but that was only a guess on Arthur's part. He merely nodded. "Bit of a war-zone, this is, eh?"

"Indeed," Mr. Weasley said serenely. "I haven't been able to look around much..." And he was thankful.

"It's about the same everywhere, Arthur," Hestia Jones told him, blowing on her fingers and rubbing them together to fight the cold and the abject misery and fear. The color was gone from her young cheeks and her eyes were darkened from lack of sleep. "What's the count so far?"

She was referring to the body count—for that was Arthur's job. He stood in the middle of the wreckage and made records of the destruction. He bore a clipboard full of numbers; some of them crossed out and doubled, others crossed and tripled. It was a sad day in the war against You-Know-Who.

"So far, Knockturn is at 84. Diagon just broke 1,000."

"Merlin save us..." Hestia whispered, clutching her small, cold hands to her chest.

"And how many blocks have reported in?" Jennings asked, pulling a flask from within his robes.

"Let's see..." Arthur muttered, consulting the clipboard once more. "One through forty five, sixty through seventy five, one hundred twenty through one ninety, and now the two of you with seventy six through...?" He wondered what the scene was like outside number ninety three, Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. He had to remain stationary due to that blasted clipboard, waiting for information... praying...

"We made it down to one twenty," Jennings said pompously, puffing out his overlarge stomach as though counting vast numbers of corpses was something to be proud of.

"And..." Arthur steeled himself, "how many?"

"Thirteen," Hestia said. Arthur spluttered.

"Those boys of yours, Arthur," Hestia whispered as Jennings busied himself with his flask once more. "From what people have been saying, they set off half the fireworks in their shop! Anyone who hadn't taken refuge in one of the other shops was saved—Arthur, the firecrackers had cheering potions in them!"

"Your boys are handing out tea." Jennings seemed unsure whether he liked this idea or not.

"It's amazing! Simply amazing..." Hestia trailed off, gazing down Diagon Alley with a wistful expression lighting up her eyes for a fleeting moment.

"Weasley," Jennings interrupted Arthur's reverie of glowing pride. "Any idea what's caused all this? Has there been any word?"

"I've been hearing rumors about a leak from the _Prophet_," Arthur said, his mind elsewhere. "No one seems to know what the leak was about. There hasn't been any official word as of yet..."

" Of course; it's too soon. In the morning, I think, Weasley," Jennings replied. "No need to cover anything up unless the _Prophet_ tries to print it."

"Let me take that clipboard for you, Arthur," Hestia put in. She pulled the board from his cold fingers and gave him a knowing smile beyond her years. "I'm sure you'd like to head down to number ninety three."

"Yes," Arthur's voice came breathlessly. "Thank you," he called over his shoulder, already rushing down Diagon Alley.

-

"Dad!" Fred and George shouted, careening down the alley towards their father, leaping over pygmy puffs and ducking so as not to spill the drinks of their patrons. Indeed, Fred and George and their entire staff had set up a table in the middle of the street in order to distribute free cheering potions, tea and fire whiskey. The pygmy puffs were treated to a "free range" experience while fireworks and patented day-dreams were displayed on tables outside the shop, bearing brightly colored sale banners. The atmosphere around number ninety three was convivial and infectious. Several witches and wizards began to applaud as Fred and George knocked their father over with the force of their dual embrace. From the bloodstreaked pavingstones Arthur Weasley held fast to his boys, tears running down his face in sheer joy.

-

Very early that following morning, Ginny Weasley was standing at the Burrow's kitchen stove, making a cup of tea. She nearly dropped the tea kettle when her father apparated into the room, shortly followed by her brothers, Fred and George. Her Quiddich

reflexes were solely responsible for the kettle remaining in her hands rather than crashing to the floor.

"Ah! So sorry Ginny, dear," Mr. Weasley said quickly, rushing towards his only daughter. "Let me help you with that," and he commenced making tea for all of them.

"So what's wrong?" Ginny asked of Fred and George as they stood with their hands in their pockets beside the kitchen table.

"Who says anything's wrong?" George responded a little too quickly. Ginny simply rolled her eyes.

"Let's see here..." she said in mock thought, putting a finger to her chin and gazing pensively at the ceiling. "Fred and George Weasley, entrepreneurs extraordinare, creators of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes—and undoubtedly greatly sought-after bachelors—standing in their mother's kitchen at four o'clock in the morning, wearing yesterday's robes and clinging to their father like a pair of toddlers... Let me see, did I get everything?" She glanced at the pair of them and noted that she was not getting much of a rise out of them. "Oh, and you two suddenly can't take a joke. Something's _definitely_ wrong," Ginny concluded. Mr. Weasley placed four cups of tea on the table along with milk, sugar, and a bottle of firewhiskey.

"Dad," Ginny said firmly, "what _on earth_ is going on?"

Mr. Weasley sat down slowly, as though he had been looking forward to resting his bones the entire night. He patted the seat next to himself wearily. "Come and sit down, Ginny." As soon as she had seated herself beside him, he put an arm around her and swiftly kissed her forehead. Still holding her close he told her, "You sound exactly like your mother back when we were young..."

"Dad!" Ginny rolled her eyes. "That's very sweet of you but it still leaves me clueless as to what's happened!" Her father sighed and squeezed her shoulder affectionately.

"The truth is, Ginny, no one's quite sure what it is that's happened—or, more directly, what actually caused it. This is just a hunch... but I think everything will be explained as soon as yesterday's prophet arrives."

And as Mr. Weasley spoke, a tawny owl and a great horned landed on the windowsill outside the Weasley's kitchen window. Fred jumped up to open the window and let the owls in. They swooped through the open window, causing Fred to duck in order to avoid being clobbered by them. They landed swiftly on the table before Mr. Weasley, jostling one another and spilling his tea in the process, each attempting to get his attention first. The _Daily Prophet_ tawny held an unusually large special edition of the newspaper: the great horned was clearly Ministry, as it went so far as to bite the other owl's wing just to get to "Mr. Arthur Weasley."

Mr. Weasley scooped up the irate Ministry bird, removing a piece of parchment from its leg and shooing it out the window.

"Fred, George, would you mind paying the _Prophet_ for me?" He asked, unfolding the parchment and speed reading his way through a hastily scribbled memo. Fred and George paid the owl out of their pockets as Ginny unfurled the paper. She rolled her eyes and heaved a mighty sigh before she slammed the _Prophet_ onto the table with an almighty _harrumph_.

"Oh, _Lord..._" she fumed.

_"HARRY POTTER: MISSING!!" _blared the headline in undoubtedly the largest text the editors of _The Daily Prophet_ could find on such short notice.

"That would do it," Fred said knowingly. He poured some firewhiskey into his tea.

"No wonder," George echoed eerily. His eyes seemed fixed on something only he could see. He accepted a cup of tea wearily from his brother, still deep in thought.

"_What?!_" Ginny insisted, gesticulating in exasperation with her fingertips.

"Looks like it's back to the Ministry for me, kids," Mr. Weasley said with a heavy heart. "Fred, George, tell Ginny what happened... and your Mother as well. I don't know if I'll be home for dinner tonight but please tell her that I will try my hardest."

"It's ok, Dad," Fred said, moving closer to his father. "Mom'll understand."

"Yes, of course..." Mr. Weasley drained his tea cup and prepared to leave. Yet before he took a single step toward the door he turned again to face his children.

"... family hug?" he said weakly.

Fred, George and Ginny all came at him in a rush. It was the best feeling Arthur Weasley could ever recall.

-

_"'Arrests in London Bridge Bombing, Ministry Scandal,'" _Ron read aloud from yesterday's _Daily Prophet_ over breakfast much later that same morning. He was reading yesterday's _Prophet_ because that's what had come in the mail that day. With Scrimgeour's new proclamation, it took at least a day for the Ministry to clear the papers for publication.

"That one sounds interesting," Mrs. Weasley put in sarcastically, buttering toast.

"_Since the murderous explosions two _(more like three) _days ago in which over 300 muggles _(blah, blah, blah),_ the Ministry of Magic has finally made their first arrests. It is exclusively reported to you—the deserving magical public—that one Mr. Stan Shunpike, 22, has been forceably returned to the Ministry _(because who in their right mind would go willingly?) _on charges of conspiracy. This is Mr. Shunpike's second arrest under very serious charges _(wonder if they ever let him out after the first one, eh?)_. You may recall—not one year ago—Mr. Shunpike was held for questioning in relation—" _

"Alright, that's enough, Ronald," Mrs. Weasley put in. "I think that poor boy has gone through enough without our reading about his misfortunes over breakfast..." she trailed off, filling her children's plates with pieces of toast barely visible through all the butter.

_"_Here, here," said Fred and George in unison between large bites of butter/toast.

"That paper's all rubbish, anyway." Mrs. Weasley scowled. She pulled the pages from Ron's fingers, replacing them with several pieces of slimy toast. Ginny edged the _Prophet_ from her mother's hands with a smile and began to flip through it once more. Her eyes settled on a column she had not noticed until just then.

"Ooh, look!" Ginny squealed in mock joy. "Rita Skeeter is back. '_Me, Myself & I: Celebrity Sightings_.'"

"Oh, goodness," Mrs. Weasley tutted, now distributing second helpings of sausage and eggs.

"Anyone we know?" Fred asked, leaning closer to Ginny in order to get a better look at the page. He paused to take a heaping bite of toast just as George did the same. Ron flashed the twins a rather bemused expression from his place directly across the table.

_- _

_-_

_-_

Harriet had spent the night at a muggle hotel inside London. Waking up before him that morning—a truly odd sensation that would take Harry some time to get used to—she had taken a walk to some muggle shop to buy a pair of sandals and a package of hair ties. Harry had woken up that morning to find her body freshly showered, sitting by the window, sipping a cup of tea and holding a copy of _The Daily Prophet_. 

_Anyone we know?_ Harry asked, a distinct feeling of deja vu choosing that particular moment to wash over him. But then Harriet reminded him why the phrase seemed familiar—_anyone we know_ was what Hogwarts students would ask one another each time the_ Daily Prophet_ arrived in the Great Hall: has "anyone we know" become "someone we knew"? It was a chilling thought.

"Let's see..." Harriet muttered aloud, scanning _Me, Myself & I_ and the tiny pictures that accompanied each lengthy paragraph. "The Weird Sisters were spotted in Diagon Alley what would have been four days ago, now. When accosted by Rita Skeeter they said it was a shame about Floreen Fortescue's Ice Cream Shop being closed down as it was always their favorite stop in Diagon Alley, followed by... mindless drivel written by Rita Skeeter, I think your friend Hermione might say?"

_Yeah, _Harry replied. _I really miss her... _

_--And not your friend Ron? Is there anything particular about this Hermione that you miss? Fine eyes, perhaps?_ If Harry had been sitting next to her she would have been elbowing him in the ribs, he thought.

_NOT like that! I mean, I care about Hermione but... I don't like her that way... not that she's ugly or anything! She just..._ Harry was getting tongue-tied and embarrassed in front of the darker half of his own soul.

_She has a very endearing personality_, Harriet interpreted from the jumbled mess that was Harry's part-of-the-brain at that moment. _I understand, Harry. I merely take pleasure in watching you squirm from time to time. _

Harry wondered where this eloquent, slightly vindictive portion of his soul had come from. Was this a rare side effect of a Half Horcrux? Or a sliver of the darkest side of Severus Snape within him? Salazar Slytherin seeping in? Or even some fragment of Lord Voldemort himself fused within Harry's very soul?

"Can't we have a peaceful breakfast without _his_ getting involved?"she fumed aloud.

_Sorry. _She was very firm about not wanting to hear a word concerning Lord Voldemort. She was almost as zealous about it as Scrimgeour—almost. At the back of his mind—the part she had reserved for him to dwell—Harry almost didn't want to hear anymore about Voldemort either. Almost. _What else is in the paper? _

She allowed him to use her eyes while she drank tea—another awkward sensation. She had begun relinquishing control of portions of the body from time to time, allowing Harry to turn their head if he wanted to show her something or even to humm along should he hear a familiar tune. "It's like this: either we choose to get along with one another or we both die trying," she had told him.

There was a photograph of Ludo Bagman and Dedalus Diggle against an unfamiliar cityscape. The article said that Diggle and Bagman had run into one another by accident in a part of New York City known as the lower-west side of Manhattan Island. Diggle, the article reported, was on vacation with several members of his extended family when he literally ran into the Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Bagman's rotundness beamed out from the moving photograph in a pinstriped suit. The tiny Bagman in the picture threw his paunchy arm around Diggle's shoulder in a friendly manner which caused Diggle to lurch forward and drop his hat. A little old witch scurried into the picture to straighten Diggle's violet jumper and pose strategically with Bagman before the events of the photograph repeated themselves. Harry chuckled to himself before moving on to the next picture.

It was a good thing that Harriet was in charge of drinking the tea and not himself as he might have choked on it.

The picture was of Hermione. And Victor Krum. He was handing her what appeared to be a glass of lemonade while whispering something in her ear. Her hair was being swept away from her face by an ocean breeze and she was laughing. The blue sea sparkled happily in the background.

"She looks well," Harriet commented. "I don't know why you were so worried about her." Harriet continued to drink tea, reading him the article about Hermione and Krum. "'Victor Krum, 20, Seeker for the Bulgarian National Team, put in an appearance at the Bulgarian National Junior Professional League Quiddich Finals yesterday outside Odessos. Attending with him was Hermione Granger, 17, currently entering her 7th year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The two have remained close after attending the Yule Ball together during the Triwizard Tournament back in 1994.'"

"'After the match the two were spotted spending quality time against a stunning view of the Black Sea; a time when this reporter took the chance to catch up with the pair.'"

Harry wasn't really listening to Harriet's somewhat bored voice reading the article. He had been staring at the picture. He knew that muggles had ways of doctoring pictures to show things that weren't there and he began to wonder if Rita Skeeter's camera man had done something like that. Krum was difficult to recognize—but that could have been due to the fact that he was wearing a muggle t-shirt, shorts and trainers. Hermione on the other hand... he couldn't recall ever seeing her look the way she did. He had never seen her so tan. He had never seen her in yellow, let alone in a yellow sun dress as short as the one she wore now. He had never seen her so carefree. He couldn't remember the last time she had looked that happy.

-

-

-

It was too bad that both Fred _and_ George had bitten into their toast before they looked at the newspaper. It was also too bad that Ron was sitting directly across from them when they saw Hermione's picture. And it was all together too bad for everyone concerned when the miniature Krum in the picture planted a kiss on Hermione's cheek.

"Wha'?" Ron asked innocently, picking up his toast. Fred and George had stopped chewing their food and Ginny looked constipated. Mrs. Weasley leaned over to get a better look at the paper.

The little Krum kissed Hermione again.

"Oh, dear..." Mrs. Weasley said mildly. That's when Fred, George and Ginny lost it.

The paper fluttered to the floor as Ginny let out a raucous giggle. Fred and George merely looked at the blank expression on Ron's face and exploded in laughter, accidentally bombarding him in an avalanche of Pre Chewed Toast Goo.

Dripping in Fred and George's partially digested breakfast as they continued to laugh hysterically, Ron's eyes fell to the floor. Even as his mother bellowed at Fred and George, even as a slightly disgusted Fleur entered the room and pointed her wand at his face saying _Scourgify_, Ron could not take his eyes from the smiling picture of Hermione that lay at his feet.

_-_

_-_

_-_

"I'm going to ask you a question," Harriet said aloud, inspecting her face in the bathroom mirror that night, "but you must promise not to let it go to your head: I only want your opinion this once."

_Sure. Ask away... _

"Do you think it's better to walk into a situation knowing nothing, or knowing all-together too much?" She paused, and when he did not answer her directly she continued. "If you're overly familiar with your surroundings and circumstances, you run the risk of missing something; however, complete obscurity is just as risky, as you lack certain basic facts that would otherwise be considered common knowledge: knowledge," she growled in frustration as she turned out the bathroom light and closed the door with a _harrumph_. "I just don't know anymore..."

_I suppose you have to know just the right amount..._ Harry said at last, not knowing what else to say. He had always known he was not the most articulate wizard in all of Great Britain. Her philosophizing was far over his head and he accepted it with an unseen grin.

"Some mysterious measurement entangled somewhere in the middle ground, I suppose..." She was muttering to herself again.

_You sound like Snape,_ Harry mused.

"Of course I do." And with that she returned to bed.

_-_

_-_

_-_

_Rufus Scrimgeour felt as though every last Beater who had ever played for the Falmouth Falcons had mistaken his head for a Bludger. He lay sprawled out on a cold floor, the side of his face smashed awkwardly against something hard and damp. Owing to the tinkling sound of water very near by, he judged himself to be crumpled in a heap against some sort of fountain. Warily, he opened his eyes to mere slits and lifted his head from the ground. _

_Light poured into his eyes, temporarily blinding him—but in that instant he knew where he was: the entryway to the Ministry of Magic. The hard wood floors, the echoing of the fountain, the barely audible whooshing of the fires lining the walls... it was all so familiar—he could picture it again with his eyes closed. In the darkness of his mind, he rose to his feet with the aid of the fountain he had been huddled against. His head was still spinning but he managed to stagger to his feet, using the side of the fountain as a sort of guide rail. With measured strength he was able to limp around the fountain. There was something wrong with his foot so that he could barely move without considerable pain, yet something deep within him was crying out. He staggered, unprepared for battle on unsteady feet. _

_And then he heard the rushing of the fireplaces and footsteps coming from every hearth. With his eyes closed he could see their black cloaks billowing out as they stormed him. He raised a shaky hand bearing his wand, ready to fight; ready to throw fire and wind and his own life in their path, that they might not reach that fountain... _

_Palms sweaty, fingers trembling, he raised his wand and his eyes to meet them. Yet there were only three: Stanley Shunpike, Albus Dumbledore, and cousin Seväg. He gaped at them—his betrayers—those sent to destroy him, wands at the ready. _

_"We meet again," he said at last, staring evenly at each of them. They in turn said nothing but began to circle the fountain in a predatory fashion. He limped along the inner circle, feeling only the pain in his feet and the damp at the back of his robes. They circled him slowly as he staggered, each step more labored than the last, waiting to strike. And it was he who slipped on the hem of his robes, sliding across the floor, bracing himself against the fountain, exposing his heels to the enemy. And they struck. _

_With a solemn bow, they waved their wands as one and his blood began to drain away, mingling with the fountain to overflow its barriers and flood the hall. The fires hissed as blood and water hit them in a rush. Blood poured forth from the statue's noble figures, from the centaur's arrows, the goblin's pointed hat and the house elf's ears. _

_They stood before him, close as friends at his deathbed, benevolent and kind. They looked down upon his death. _

_"In thunder, lightning, or in rain," Stan whispered. _

_"When the battle's lost and won." Cousin Seväg leaned near. _

_"Fair is foul and foul is fair," Dumbledore said at last, softly, smiling. "Come now, Rufus," he said gaily, bracingly, "surely you know the rest?" _

_Rufus Scrimgeour choked. His thoughts were becoming thick and his breathing labored. He could not for the life of him remember the lines from that stupid muggle play Dumbledore had been so fond of. He could never understand the way Dumbledore thought, the reasons he had for the actions he had taken. Rufus Scrimgeour realized with a jolt that he never understood much of anything in his sad little life. None of it had seemed important enough to remember, anyways. Here one minute and gone the next... was he really dying? Was this it? Had he accomplished nothing?... _

Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister of Magic, sat up with considerable force—a stray piece of parchment from his desk stuck to the side of his face. He was very much alive, whole, full of blood and sitting behind his desk at the Ministry where he had undoubtedly fallen asleep after another late night of work had kept him at the office. Judging by the magical windows it was close to sunrise, a pretty pinkish tinge lighting the edges of an otherwise miserable gray sky.

He snatched the piece of paper off of his face where it had been held fast by a thin, drying line of spit. He squinted at it, his eyes still adjusting to his awakened state.

Seeing the report of _exactly_ what leaked out in yesterday's _Daily Prophet_, he let out an almighty yell that must have frightened half the cleaning staff on his floor. He lept to his feet with a roar. Someone was going to pay for this—most likely the first person he could lay hands on at this hour of the morning... and then it came to him: that Junior Assistant is usually here through the night...

And, in a towering rage, Rufus Scrimgeour tore from his desk, bellowing, "_I'm going to rip that Weasley a new arse hole!_"

**ADDENDUM:**

Please note that this is now all of chapter 8. I've taken a few liberties and moved a few things to the next chapter, which is now titled and dragging its feet to the finish line. Things are moving far slower now, thanks to a few alternative projects (namely: work, a wedding, and figuring out my life). I hope to keep "The Gunman" alive. I never expected to be finished before _Deathly Hallows_ was released. Pffft! I don't expect to read _Deathly Hallows _at all, no matter how quickly "The Gunman" or any of my other projects finish themselves. I could walk you through the cyclic nature of my arguments but I wouldn't want to waste your time! Feel free and welcome to peruse my other authurial investments in the absense of chapter 9, "Adventures in Alcoholism."

your sordid humor


	9. An Installment

**TITLE: "THE GUNMAN" **

**AUTHOR: **sordid humor

**AUTHOR'S E-MAIL: **sordid underscore humors at yahoo dot com

**CATEGORY: **Adventure

**SUB-CATEGORY: **Humor; Romance; Drama

**RATING: **brought to you by the letter M: "M" is for monotony

**DISCLAIMERS: **

I do not own them in a box,

I do not own them with a fox,

I do not own them while I'm bowling,

They all belong to J.K. Rowling.

Jake Gyllenhaal is an actor. I do not own him. Just thought I'd make that clear. I'm using his face by request. That is all.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **

This is a 5,000 word installment which serves as proof that I am not dead.

I am in fact alive, not necessarily well, and living in Brooklyn.

There is good liquor, rent stabilization, free parking, and hookah. You should join me. Bring chicken, we'll barbecue.

**- - - **

we demand flat-ness

we demand THIS MAN

- enclosed picture of actor Jake Gyllenhaal

we demand cross-contamination

((According to the most recent tax records available, the owner and proprietor of Euro Cafe & Snacks, located at 14 Charing Cross Road in London, is one Mr. A. Shafiq. Beware the internet.))

((This is me: slightly inebriated and trying my damnedest.))

((This is you: not taking me seriously.))

**PART II **

**SELECTED PORTIONS OF: **

**CHAPTER IX: **

(TENTATIVELY ENTITLED)

**ADVENTURES IN ALCOHOLISM**

Harriet sat alone at the Leaky Cauldron. From her dark corner she could eavesdrop on several conversations simultaneously. She sipped tea.

"I won't let my girls leave the house without me, things being the way they are!" a blonde witch at the bar tittered at her friend. The friend agreed, tittered some herself, and ordered something a little stronger.

"Yer not coming to the match?!" a middle aged wizard exclaimed, staring across the table at his friend with shock and bewilderment written across his face.

"Nope," his friend replied morosely, looking as put out as his companion, "the wife, yeh see. Doesn't think it's safe fer us teh go 'in such a small group!'" He impersonated his wife's shrill voice. The other men nodded sympathetically and sipped their mead.

The Ministry was frightening people into staying at home. That would make things easier—fewer witnesses. Having gathered all the information and supplies she would need, Harriet put a sickle on the table for her tea and collected her things. Blatant stares followed her path to the door.

"What's a pretty thing like that doing out alone, eh?" a young man inquired of Tom the barman after ordering his drink.

"Dunno," Tom answered, pouring the man's scotch. "She's in 'ere a few times, now. Always alone."

"And always in men's clothes?"

"'Suppose so, Mr. Weasley."

"Interesting." Fred Weasley sipped his scotch and pondered. Tom shrugged and held out a hand for three sickles.

-

Harriet returned to her hotel room to find Hedwig perched on the fire escape, pecking out a steady rhythm against the window pane. She rushed over to the window and opened it. Headwig swept in and deposited a large brown package onto the bed, hooting softly and coming around to land on Harriet's shoulder. She preened.

_Headwig can recognize me?_ Harry wondered.

--_Yes. In a way. She can sense. She knows us._

_Us?_

--_Shut it, Potter. _

Harry ignored her. _What's in the package?_

She ripped open the package and dumped its carefully folded contents out over the bedspread. It looked like just a lot of black material of different textures, all a little faded.

_Huh?_

Harriet pulled out a bundle of fabric and shook it out. Only a small amount of dust plumed into the air. She coughed and then examined the cloth. It was a slightly faded black dress in a 1940's style, with a collar and a row of buttons marching down the front, a silver buckle cinching it at the back. She held it up to herself and it was about the right size, if a little big. "Not bad," she muttered.

_Where did these come from?_

She chuckled. "They're 'Dark Artifacts,' Potter." He shrugged and she rolled her eyes. "I forged your handwriting and wrote Dobby. I had him send any women's clothing from the attic that could pass for Muggle wear. This must have been Mrs. Black's."

_That's disturbing._

"Pretty much," she sighed. "But I can't go on wearing _your_ clothes... and it would look suspicious if I bought everything new." Harry recalled a chapter from one of his books about disguises; it said that the best disguises consisted of both new and older, worn-looking clothes. Harry supposed that walking around wearing the same clothes as the manikins in the store windows wouldn't exactly look right, so the idea made sense.

Harriet tossed Mrs. Black's dress aside and reached into the pile again, pulling out a garment made of far less material. She held it up and snorted. It was a tiny black dress that appeared to be made entirely of snake skin, with a plunging neckline and a skirt portion that would barely cover her bum.

_Where'd that come from?_

"Must have belonged to Bellatrix Lestrange, though I don't want to think about her in it." They both gave an involuntary shudder. "After all, it's hardly Sirius Black's style," she chuckled. "Anyways, I bought some every day robes and a pair of heels," she gestured to the bags from Diagon Alley. "That should pass for now. I bought them at a consignment shop and they're quite simple, so I won't stand out." Harry thought otherwise—Harriet was too pretty not to attract attention—but he kept that to himself. She sighed and Harry figured she hadn't heard him.

"Unfortunately, we're out of this room at two." She waved her wand and her things began to pack themselves—folding, reducing, and flying into the messenger bag with relative ease. "Best get a Muggle newspaper and find something for rent. These hotels are bloody expensive." Harry had been thinking the same thing.

-

An hour later, she had taken over her favorite table at Euro Cafe, the same Muggle bakery where she had met Sid two days previous. She had already finished her sandwich and was working on the last dregs of her lukewarm cappuccino, going through the Muggle paper and circling spaces for rent that might suit her. They were all very expensive and nothing was near the Leaky Cauldron. She sighed and polished off her coffee.

"I can't believe they're hiring!" a young woman squealed to her friend as they sat down at the table next to Harriet. "The head bartender there is soooo cute! I wanna fuck him!" Harriet listened in half heartedly as Harry ignored the gossips in favor of the listings in the paper.

"I know!" the other girl squeaked back, adjusting her exposed cleavage and flipping her hair over her shoulder. "We should go to the open call tonight!"

The first girl scoffed as she blew over her hot tea. "Why? It's not like we'd get hired. They're only looking for bartenders, remember?"

"So? At least we'd get into the club for free." The first girl shrugged at this. "And we could spend the rest of the night hitting on the other cute guys." This seemed to change the girl's mind.

"Okay, fine. We'll go. I'll steal my brother's bar tending license and make copies so they'll let us in for free. But if the cute one's not there, I'm not staying."

"Fine. There are other clubs besides Ugly's." They began to eat but continued talking with their mouthes full.

"Yeah. Wish they were hiring waitresses, though. They pay you soooo bloody much to work there!"

"'Cause you have to be fuckin' hot to work there, that's why."

"What's that supposed to mean?!" the busty girl shrieked. Harriet rolled her eyes and rejoined Harry's perusal of the newspaper. An older woman came by to pick up her plate and coffee cup. Harriet thanked her and was about to leave a tip on the table and walk out when the woman stopped her.

"Are you looking for an apartment, Miss?" she asked. English was obviously her second language, but she spoke well and had a pleasant air about her.

"Yes, I am, actually. Do you know of anything in this area?"

The woman gave her a knowing smile, hiked up her sari and said, "follow me."

It turned out the three bedroom double flat above the bakery was for rent—practically for free. The owners of the bakery, Mr. & Mrs. Shafiq, were going to put an advertisement in the paper tomorrow. They used to live there themselves until their daughter asked them to move in with her husband and their children in Staffordshire. They couldn't say no to family and didn't really need the income from renting out the two stories above the bakery, so they happily leased it to Harriet...for next to nothing.

She explained that she had just graduated from university in Germany and had moved to London to be closer to her father and cousin. They would probably drop by to visit. Mr. and Mrs. Shafiq just nodded serenely. She had the feeling they only understood half of the English language. Harriet gave them the deposit in cash.

_So_, Harry mused as they walked down the street, looking for a furniture store, among other things, _what are we doing for money? My vault in Gringotts will only last so long... _

--_We're going to Ugly's._

_Great. _

_-_

Diagon Alley was unusually sunny that evening; the streets were uncrowded and all the shop doors were open to take advantage of the cool breeze. Harry made his way down the street, completely in control. After Harriet had purchased a few necessary dark detectors for the flat she had given Harry the reigns, opting to go to the back of his head and contemplate the details of her excursion to Ugly's. Harry couldn't care less. Aside from the concentration necessary to walk on cobblestone in heels, he was having the most relaxing evening he could remember in quite some time.

A noisy crowd could be heard further down the alley, outside Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. Not thinking, Harry made his way towards the brightly colored banners and squeezed inside.

The Weasley brothers' shop was packed; there seemed to be more people in the front room of their shop than on all the streets put together. He edged his way to the back room to have a look at the newest disguise magics on display. He spotted the Vocal Assimilator on a pedestal and smiled.

"That's our newest creation," said a familiar voice and Harry jumped. He turned to see Fred and George Weasley two paces behind him, talking to an enthusiastic looking blonde witch in bright red lipstick. He was about to wave to them when Harriet reminded him of something which he had, up until that moment, forgotten: he had breasts. Maybe approaching Fred and George wasn't such a good idea.

But it was too late. As soon as Harry turned his head, Harriet's long brown hair had whipped over her shoulder and an involuntary smile had spread across her face. Fred and George had seen her—were already disentangling themselves from the blonde witch with too much lipstick—and were headed her way. Harry gulped and turned quickly back to the Assimilator.

_--Don't worry_, Harriet said calmly. _I can handle this_.

_Uh... thanks._

"Hi, there," George cooed, coming up on Harriet's right side and tapping her shoulder. "I'm George Weasley. I own this place." He offered his hand to Harriet and she shook it politely. "This is my brother, Fred." Fred popped up on Harriet's left, sandwiching her, preventing her escape, and offering his hand as well. Harriet accepted the second handshake while marveling at their predatorial choreography.

"Harriet Jane Foxworthy. Pleasure to meet you both." She smiled and withdrew her hand. She looked back at the Vocal Assimilator. "I've seen your work in action—it's quite good."

"Why, thank you, Harriet." Fred swept into a low bow, jostling customers with him bum. Harriet laughed.

"Please, only my mother ever called me Harriet! Some people call me Harry," she paused and then leaned towards Fred in mock confidence, "but all my friends call me Jane."

"Then Jane it is," George said congenially, wrapping an arm around Harriet's shoulders and pulling her away from Fred and closer to the Assimilator display. "So, you say you've seen our stuff, eh? You liked it?"

Harriet smiled coyly, wriggling out from George's arm in a seamless motion and turning to face him in conversation. "I was impressed by the level of complexity, the way you layered the spells over one another without effecting the integrity of each component. It must take you a lot of time to perfect."

"Well," George blushed.

"All in a day's work," Fred chimed in, swooping in to stand beside Harriet. "Wish we had more time, though. As you can see, we've never been busier!"

"I imagine you've hired yourselves some good help," Harriet said, looking around the shop at the witches and wizards in matching magenta robes assisting customers.

"Yeah, our sales staff is great! Dunno what we'd do without them, actually." George sighed wistfully.

"Just wish we had more time to develop new products, you know?" Fred stepped closer to Harriet in order to let a sales witch by and didn't step away once she'd passed. Harriet's shoulder was flush with his ribs and she could feel the vibration of his voice as he continued. "We're always working the shop or gettin' dragged off to do paperwork."

"Speaking of which," George whispered. "Hide!"

Suddenly both twins ducked down to half their height and attempted to hide themselves behind Harriet as the sales witch from before reappeared.

"Mr. Weasley! Mr. Weasley! I see you two, there!" She said loudly, cutting her way through the crowded shop. Fred and George sighed and straightened up, both sets of hands still on Harriet's waist. "The extra register is broken again."

"Have Watson look at it," Fred suggested.

"Watson fixed it last time," George said, sounding like he was being chastised by Mrs. Weasley.

"Watson's been trying for the last ten minutes," the witch said, one hand on her hip and the other gesturing towards the registers. A tall man with messy brown hair was bent over the counter, looking frustrated. Every few seconds he would pull at his scruffy beard in frustration and adjust his grip on his wand. "Watson?" the girl called loudly.

"No good!" Watson put his wand back in his pocket and wiped a smudge of dirt off his round nose. "It just doesn't wanna be fixed, Alexa!"

Alexa fixed the Weasley twins with a look, hands on her hips and blue eyes fuming. "Are you going to do anything about it? It'll take hours to ring up the line by hand." She brushed a lock of black hair out of her eyes as she waited for an answer. Fred and George sighed.

"We'll be there in a minute, Lex," George said, defeated. Harriet looked over her shoulder at Fred and George.

"Looks like you need a manager," Harriet said softly.

"Guess it wouldn't hurt to bring one more person on," Fred said, looking at George and biting his bottom lip.

"But we'd have to start interviewing again, and we just don't have the time." George rolled his eyes and cast his eyes about the shop.

"I've got some free time in the mornings," Harriet said simply. Fred and George turned to her as one with a carnal look in their eyes. "But you'd have to pay me," she said quickly, raising a finger and stepping out of their reach. "And I'm not cheap."

Fred and George exchanged a knowing look.

"Done," they said in unison and looked back at Harriet. "When can you start?"

Harriet laughed. "How about tomorrow? I'll come in and we can discuss what you need me to do so you can concentrate on your inventing."

"Great. How can we reach you?"

Harriet began to back away, still smiling and flushed from the warmth of the bodies in the shop. "Oh, I'll be in touch. Don't worry, boys."

She waved and made her way out of the shop and back into the breezy ally. Harry felt a little light headed, and he didn't think it was from the heat in the shop. Fred and George had been hitting on him. And he liked it.

_Harriet...?_

_--I think now would be a good time to—_

_Yeah, shut up. I got it._

-

Kavall's shop looked dustier by day, but everything else looked the same; the piles of books and jars of pickled mysteries and the old cash register in the corner looked undisturbed since Harry's last visit. It appeared that Kavall rarely sold anything from the shop floor but still made enough to keep the store front open. That might be worth looking into.

Harriet hooked her shopping bag over her shoulder as she closed the shop door behind herself. Kavall was nowhere to be seen. She cleared her throat.

"Hello," she called. "Anyone home?" She spoke with confidence, peering around disinterestedly, the way Draco Malfoy might while awaiting service at Flourish and Blotts.

"Oh, hello!" Kavall popped up from a staircase hidden by the register counter. "Good day! Aunders Kavall, Miss. How may I be of service?" he swept into a gallant bow and the tasseled tip of his floppy gray wizards hat dusted a little spot on the floor.

Harriet came forward to meet him and Kavall offered her his arm as though to take her on a turn about the shop. She took his arm and he led her slowly through the shop as she spoke.

"Mr. Kavall, I believe my father acquired a book from your shop some weeks ago... quite possibly in an effort to subdue me. As you see, those efforts were fruitless. In fact," she smiled, "they seem to have backfired brilliantly."

"Ah, yes!" Kavall replied. "I would never forget a meeting with your dear father. He has a particular way about him..."

"How many times did he threaten to kill you, Mr. Kavall?" she laughed. "I'm terribly sorry, that's just the way he is; brusk and distrustful." Harry thought she might have been speaking about him but said nothing.

"It's quite alright, Miss. I've grown accustomed to harsh words and distrust these days."

"Well, Mr. Kavall, I'm not sure what spell you suggested to my father, but he seems to be trapped in the likeness and mind of my dearly departed Aunt Mildred. Dear Aunt Mildred was his eldest sister and a hopeless Squib, so I've gotten little information from her. I learned of my father's mistake through Legillimens in her sleep. I believe my father's spell was mis prepared and backfired onto himself—though I must say I'm pleased it wasn't cast on me!"

"Oh, dear," Kavall squeaked and scratched his bony temple with his free hand.

"Poor father," Harriet smiled and blushed a little. "Though it's rather amusing," she trailed off, still grinning.

"You've decided to reverse the spell?"

"I suppose," Harriet shrugged. "Better judgment will out and all that. I've got enough to tease him about for a good while." Kavall chuckled.

"Unfortunately, there's only one way to reverse it," he warned.

"With father, there's usually only one way about anything." She shrugged again. "Please go on."

"The spell is very complex dark magic; it creates a temporary, near-invincibility within the target—usually the caster, but not always—until they have carried out a specified action, a killing. Until that death has taken place at the target's hands, both facets—in this case, your father and the emulation of your dearly departed Aunt—will exist, and will exist in that temporary, near-invincible, heightened state; which, I dare say, would greatly enhance your father's work, should he choose to come out of retirement."

"He might consider it, if only to to try killing me a few times."

"Surely not," Kavall patted her arm and led her on another turn past the dirty shop windows.

"This is the worst thing I've done to him in a long time. He's quite angry." Harriet stopped to think and Kavall turned towards her, a comforting, wrinkled hand on her forearm. Her shopping bag bumped between them. "Though, I suppose he would be grateful if I got him out of Aunt Mildred."

"That's the ticket!" Kavall said, jabbing a bony finger into the air, signaling a small but significant victory.

"Can it be done?" Harriet asked.

"It's tricky—and they can't be put together again—but it can be done. And," he leaned forward, "it heightens the invincibility if done properly."

"Well, he'd have to thank me for that."

"Kavall appeared to be thinking hard. He removed his faded hat and arranged the wispy white hairs on the top of his head.

"You say your Aunt was a Squib?"

"Yes."

"No magic at all?" Harriet shook her head and Kavall frowned, etching deeper lines across his already wrinkled face. "You might be able to separate them using Legillimens on the half that is your Aunt. It would be difficult, as she appears to be the more dominant half. These things happen. Otherwise, I might try a mild memory charm, make her forget she's a Squib," Kavall continued to muse under his breath.

"That wouldn't be too bad," Harriet said. "So, how would the separation work?"

"Both facets must attempt to Apparate at the same time. The new form—your Aunt—would actually Apparate out of the existing body and your father's body would then be able to Apparate in where your Aunt had previously stood."

"So all I would need to do is convince Aunt Mildred she could Apparate and, when the time comes, I could side-along her body and my father could Apparate in?"

"That sounds like it could work, yes," Kavall smiled. "It's good that your Aunt has passed."

Harriet looked at Kavall expressionlessly.

"Then you knew her?"

"Oh, no, dear!" Kavall said quickly, bowing his head and mopping something from his brow. "I only meant that—if your father's second form had been someone living, you'd be running the risk of the second form Apparating into the person's actual body and killing them. But so long as your Aunt's already dead, that shouldn't be a problem. I meant no offense to your dear Aunt."

"None taken. She was an awful woman, really." Harriet and Kavall began to walk towards the shop door. "A head shorter than I am and about five times as wide! None of the family had any idea how she got so large—she was an Agoraphobic and never left the carriage house. My father thought it'd be a laugh to tell batty Mildred about the Salem Witch Trials... and she never left the carriage house again! Said she was afraid the Muggles would get her if she left the house and she wouldn't be able to charm the flames." Kavall laughed and released Harriet's arm as they reached the door. "Funny thing is," Harriet reflected, "no one ever bothered to tell her we had Muggle-repelling charms on the whole castle grounds." Kavall snorted and went red in the face, covering his mouth but not concealing his grin. Harriet laughed a little and opened the door, looking out into the deserted alley.

"I wish things were still funny like that," she said quietly. "Your Ministry is wishing on a star while hurricane waves crash around its ears."

"Indeed," Kavall said, darkening. "Potter is still a boy, not even your age..."

"About two years younger, I think," Harriet replied casually. "It's just plain irresponsible to peg the hopes and dreams of an entire country on one person, on one boy, let alone Potter." She turned back to Kavall and raised her eyebrows significantly. "I heard he got a 'Troll' in History of Magic... or was it Divination?"

Kavall shook his head slowly, smiling.

"Do come back. You and your father are always welcome anytime." Kavall's smile grew as he gave her another bow that swept the floor and then held the door open as she stepped out.

"Thank you, Mr. Kavall. I'll be sure to pass the message on to my father."

"And thank _you_," Kavall replied, adjusting his hat. "Good day, Miss DuMont."

Harriet made her way out of Knockturn Alley unnoticed and changed a few galleons for Muggle money at Gringotts. The crowds were thin but healthy, seeking dinner and a little entertainment for the evening. Two goblins sat on the Gringotts steps eating sandwiches. Many witches and wizards gazed in a forlorn manner as they passed the boarded up facade of Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor. A few older witches were looking at dress robes in the window display outside Madame Malkin's. Harriet began making her way back to the Leaky Cauldron, intending to change into Muggle clothes and walk back to her flat so as to enjoy the weather.

_Mind if I ask you something?_ Harry asked from the back of her mind.

_--You've been quiet enough this evening, so go ahead. _

_How do you know so bloody much? _

_--I beg your pardon? _

_I mean, why is it that you know or do certain things and always get exactly what you need? Like with the flat, or when Fred and George hired you? It can't just be the spell; so what's causing it? _

_--It's because you're an idiot._ She stepped into the ladies room of the Leaky Cauldron and removed her robes, folding them and placing them in her shopping bag. Underneath, she wore a simple cotton dress. She adjusted a crease in the hem before stepping out of the powder room.

_That's not an answer._ Harry was furious and would have grabbed her by the arm and shouted if he could. Harriet could be so frustrating at times like this. Apparently, she would rather die than give him a straight answer.

_--Yes it is._

_Not to the question I asked!_ Harry wanted to snarl.

_--You are an idiot,_ she articulated in her mind, pointedly and decisively. _It is both a fact and the simplest available answer to your query._

_Oh, yeah?_ Harry challenged.

_--Yeah. _She was mocking him now. She was walking down Charing Cross Road in heels and a dress belonging to the late Mrs. Black and she was mocking him. She really knew how to piss him off. _You're an idiot and you're terrible at potions. Worse than Neville. _

_That hurts. _

_--It's true. _

_I made that Felix Felicis, didn't I? _

_--And that's where the trouble began. _

_What do you mean by that? _

_--Alright, Harry, I'm going to make this simple so that you can understand. _

_You sound like Hermione. _

_--We use this tone of voice because it's effective, Harry. It permeates your thick skull. Now, think: what did you use to make the Felix Felicis? _

_Well, the ingredients. _

_--Obviously, Harry. _She rolled her eyes and switched the shopping bag to her other hand.

_Don't tell me..._

_--Harry, now is not the time to question the integrity of your ingredients. What's done is done. Let's move on. What else did you use? _

_Er... the Dursley's stove, my cauldron... the salad fork? _

_--Yes. _

_I thought it was strange that a potion would call for mixing with a seven and three quarter inch willow wood salad fork. _

_--Strange, indeed. And where is that salad fork now? _

_In my office. _

_--Where in your office?_

_With the other potion making utensils, where it belongs, _Harry couldn't help but snap.

_--Well, bully for being organized, Harry._

_What's wrong with being organized?! _

_--Nothing, Harry. _She stopped at the street corner and waited for the traffic light to change.

_What now?_

_--What was the fork made of? _

_Wood,_ Harry spat. _I told you! You already knew that! It was willow wood, seven and three quarter inches! _

_--And wood does what, Harry?_ she asked calmly, crossing the street.

_I don't know. I'm an idiot, remember? I'm an idiot and I'm bad at potions. Worse than Neville Longbottom! What does wood do? _

_Oh, Harry, you needn't throw a fit. _She reached the bakery and unlocked the side door. She climbed the blue-gray cement steps that lead up to her flat, the heels of her shoes making a 'click-clack' sound on each step. She turned the key and opened the door.

_So what does wood do—other than make a great material for salad forks, that is? _

_--You're funny, Harry._ She shut the door. _Wood absorbs things._

Harry's brain froze. _Shit. _

_--Yes. Shit. Wood absorbs. The salad fork absorbed some of the Felix Felicis—it's an old but effective way to filter impurities out of finicky potions. The wooden fork absorbed the potion. Then you placed it with your other potion making tools. You treated it like any other potion making utensil. You reused it. _

Harry felt as though he were turning green and spinning wildly all at once. He tried to close his eyes and Harriet let him.

_--You used the salad fork to make the Draught of Chastity for the Half Horcrux. The Half Horcrux made me. _

CRACK.

Harry felt the weight of his stupidity coming down on him. He shook his head and felt a sudden, piercing headache coming on.

"You mean, I cross contaminated the potions?"

He jumped at the sound of his own voice, having not heard it in so long. He opened his eyes to see Harriet not an inch away form his nose, toe to toe with his newly restored body.

"Yes, you cross-contaminated the potions and now I have Felix Felicis in my bloodstream. Permanently. Convenient." She chuckled. "Giddiness, recklessness, and dangerous overconfidence. Do those three things mean anything to you?" Harry shook his head, not able to put the pieces together and knowing Harriet would do it for him. "Those are the symptoms of overexposure to Felix Felicis. Be very careful, Harry."

She slowly reached a hand to trace the lightning scar on his forehead. As she did so, her head tilted to one side, hair spilling over her neck, just the way Ginny would tilt her head before kissing him. Her touch was soft but chilled. He could see his spectacled face reflected in her dark eyes, his pale skin echoed in her golden freckles. He felt a cold chill to go along with his Apparition headache.

"A power the Dark Lord knows not: Harry Potter is an idiot who is terrible at Potions. Who knew?" She shrugged, mussed his hair, and turned away from him to survey the room. "I suspect you'll be wanting your clothes, then. They're in your trunk in the hall."

Harry looked down and realized _why_ he was suddenly so cold. He sprinted to the hall and tore through his trunk for a pair of clean shorts. He returned to the main room wearing a shirt, trousers and an indignant look. Harriet smiled sweetly back at him and suppressed a laugh.

"Fair's fair, Harry."

He turned to find where she'd put _Hogwarts: A History_. He could use a good shave and some time to collect himself.

"Oh!" Harriet said, as though she'd just remembered something. Harry turned back toward her. She paused. He could tell by the look on her face that she was about to say something snarky and irreverent—she had some of Ginny in her.

"Nice..." Harry braced himself, "scar."

She winked.

Harry blushed, not sure which scar she meant.


End file.
